


Come and Lay by My Side

by boldlygoingnowherefast



Series: the many miles we walk [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arthur Morgan Lives, Fix-It, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Running Away Together, Sickness, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:00:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 48,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21710416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boldlygoingnowherefast/pseuds/boldlygoingnowherefast
Summary: If Charles asked, would Arthur run away with him? The grasp Dutch has on Arthur is strong, and if Charles is going to save him, he's got his work cut out for him. But Charles is patient, and Arthur is worth saving.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Series: the many miles we walk [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643497
Comments: 161
Kudos: 400





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends! RDR2 hit me hard and I wanted to show my love for this rich world. This fic starts in Chapter 4 of the game and diverges from there. That being said, this fic still plays with canon all the way through the end, so I would finish it before reading!

The blood-red light of dawn is just cresting the treetops around Shady Belle when Arthur stumbles back into camp, closely followed by Dutch and the small group that went with them to assault Bronte’s house. Charles isn’t on watch, but he’s sitting by the campfire facing the front entrance, which means he catches the haunted look on all their faces as they approach. All save Dutch, who’s got the self-satisfied smirk of a man who got exactly what he wanted. Charles’ gaze catches on Arthur’s face. Something awful must have happened for Arthur to look like that, face pale and eyes dark under the brim of his hat.

Arthur’s eyes meet his, and Charles’ inquiring look is met with a slight shake of Arthur’s head. _We’ll talk later_ , it means, and Charles watches him follow Dutch into the house, Dutch’s bruised shadow, reluctant but unwavering.

Charles turns back to his cup of coffee and tries to push his curiosity aside. He’ll find out what happened in due time; Arthur has always been good about keeping him informed, and if all else fails, news travels around camp like a brush fire. As the camp slowly wakes around him, Charles feels their black mood settle on his shoulders like a heavy blanket. The deaths of Sean and Kieran have hit them all hard, and unlike after Blackwater, they are having a tough time picking themselves back up. Fate has dealt them too many blows in a row. 

When the sun has taken its firm position in the sky and turns the morning warm and sticky, Charles gets up from his spot at the campfire, sets his tin mug aside, and trudges out to where the horses are grazing. Young Kieran had taken a liking to the horses and often took care of their morning needs, but with Kieran gone, someone needs to shoulder the weight. The boy had been nervous and a bit whiny, but Charles had liked him. Charles feels his absence as he gives Arthur’s horse a gentle scratch on her velvety nose. Penny is a good steed, and Charles knows the horse has taken a shine to Arthur just as much as he to her.

It’s nearing midday by the time Arthur makes a reappearance, and Charles can tell by the ruffled quality of his hair and clothing that he took a short nap, or tried to. Charles is sitting on a tree stump a short distance from the outskirts of camp working on carving more arrows when Arthur joins him, firmly shoving his hat back into place on his head as he settles on the trunk of a tree across from Charles.

“Alright, Charles?”

Charles offers him a simple tilt of his head. “I’m okay. You?”

Arthur sighs heavily and leans his elbows on his knees. “Been better, to be honest.”

“What happened out there?” Charles asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Arthur rubs a hand across the short beard on his chin, a nervous gesture he’s been doing more and more recently. “We got into Bronte’s house from the river, and it was the usual shitshow, no big deal. We kidnap the guy and take him back on our boat. I’m thinking, _oh we’ll be ransoming this feller off for some big bucks it’ll be real swell_ and then right in front of all of us, Dutch drowns him and feeds him to a fucking alligator.”

Charles feels something cold settle in his chest and it matches the expression on Arthur’s face.

They’re far enough away from camp that no one will overhear them, but Arthur leans in anyway, his voice going quiet and thin. “It was like I didn’t know that man. Dutch was suddenly a stranger. We were all spooked out of our goddamn minds.”

“I haven’t known Dutch long, but I get the feeling this was something that’s been building for a while.”

Arthur ducks his head and the brim of his hat hides his expression. “I think you’re right. I don’t like it, Charles. I feel like something terrible is going to happen—more terrible than what’s already happened, of course.”

“Listen up, everyone!”

Arthur tenses as Dutch’s booming voice sounds from the front porch of the house.

“Gather ‘round, please.”

Charles pulls himself to his feet and waits for Arthur to do the same before making his way towards the crumbling building. They stand side-by-side near the back of the group as Dutch puffs himself up and begins his speech.

It’s the same old thing; they need one more win and then they’ll head off to the West or Tahiti or wherever it is that Dutch thinks they’ll be safe, as long as they just get _one more win._

This time, Dutch wants to rob a bank in the middle of the city.

Charles can feel Arthur’s tension beside him. It’s a terrible idea, one that’s likely to get some of them killed and the rest of them put behind bars. No one in their right mind would try to rob a bank in the stronghold that is Saint Denis, but that’s the problem, isn’t it? Dutch isn’t in his right mind, and no one is willing to step forward and put an end to it before everything comes crumbling down around them, much like this aging homestead that creaks under Dutch’s feet.

Dutch goes on for a while about his great plan and tells everyone to start getting ready. They ride in three days.

Arthur immediately follows Dutch into the house, and Charles can tell by the angle of his shoulders that he’s planning to argue with Dutch. Charles doesn’t imagine it will be successful.

Charles returns to his spot outside of camp and settles back down on the tree stump. His posture is calm and his shoulders are curved over the carving he’s working on, but his mind wanders far from this campsite, from this gang. Charles ran on his own for a long time before he joined the gang, taking jobs where he could and robbing where he couldn’t. A younger Charles would have scoffed at the fact he’s considering a suicidal robbery just because his gang leader wants it, but a younger Charles had constantly watched his back in fear of someone putting a knife in it when it was turned. With freedom came danger. Charles has grown comfortable in this gang, despite his reservations.

Charles thinks about all they could lose in this robbery and feels his hands still on the wood he’s carving. Maybe there’s another option.

Every day, Arthur comes back to camp looking more haggard and worn, and Charles can tell his ghosts are catching up to him, nipping at his heels and gaining more ground each day. Back on their first hunting trip together in the thick mountain snow, Charles had asked Arthur why he hadn’t left yet. It’s a mystery Charles hasn’t figured out, despite Arthur’s response, and sometimes Charles thinks about the man Arthur could have been had this life not found him. Arthur has a good heart beating behind his ribs, one that Charles knows Arthur can’t see and that Dutch is doing all he can to extinguish.

Arthur and Dutch have taken their argument to the porch on the second story of the house, and though Charles can’t quite make out the words, he can hear the frantic tone of Arthur’s voice.

All around them the world sprawls, and though Charles knows they are tethered to this place and these people, bonds can destroy just as much as they protect.

Charles comes to a decision.

Arthur leaves his conversation with Dutch feeling like he's been hit over the head with a broom by a maid who caught him snooping in the pantry: reprimanded, embarrassed, and carrying a wounded pride. He stomps out of the house and is considering riding his horse into the surrounding fields to sulk when a motion to his left catches his eye. Charles steps into view.

“Arthur, do you have a moment?”

Charles’ voice, always so even and warm, eases something that had tightened in Arthur’s chest. “Sure, Charles.”

“Will you ride with me?” Charles asks, and there is something about the look in his eyes that compels Arthur to say yes.

Not that he would ever say no to riding with Charles.

They mount up, and Shady Belle disappears into the trees behind the beat of their horses’ hooves. As the trees break into the open fields of West Lemoyne, the sun beats a relentless pattern on their backs. Arthur can feel heat where the edge of his hairline and the collar of his jacket gap just enough for the sun to press in, harsh on his skin.

Arthur clears his throat. “Did you have something you wanted to talk about?’

Charles’ gaze is focused on the flow of Taima’s mane, and he takes a moment to respond. “That bank job.”

“-is going to be a goddamn disaster,” Arthur finishes for him. “Anyone in their right mind can tell.”

“And Dutch?” Charles asks, and he finally looks over at Arthur, his expression carefully quiet.

Arthur thinks about the look on Dutch’s face when Arthur had expressed his concern about the robbery, the sneering disdain for Arthur’s opinion, hidden beneath the bluster and a speech about Arthur not having enough faith. “Dutch is in a bad way. And he certainly don’t want my opinion on the matter.” Voicing the thought aloud feels like a betrayal, but Charles is calm and attentive, and that eases the painful sting of admitting what Arthur’s been thinking for months now. He heaves a weary sigh. “Getting Dutch to change his mind has never been easy, but now…”

“Will you follow him?” Charles’ question is direct, and Arthur feels his pulse quicken.

“What choice do I have?”

“There’s always a choice.”

Arthur tugs Penny to a stop in the dusty field, and Charles does the same with Taima. They watch each other across the short distance between their horses. “I’ve been following Dutch for twenty years. I can’t betray him.”

“You’d follow him to your death? When he wouldn’t do the same for you?” Charles moves Taima closer. “Arthur, he had no plans to rescue you when you were captured by the O’Driscolls. If you hadn’t shown up when you did, I would have gone looking for you myself.”

Arthur’s mouth is dry, and he looks away from Charles’ intense gaze to watch a hawk wheel in the distant sky. He can still feel the ache in his shoulder where he was shot, and he’s reminded of the horror of those few days. It’s not a surprise that Dutch wasn’t coming for him, not really, but the confirmation still stings. The thought that Charles would have gone looking for him, despite Dutch’s inaction, is a balm, one that he can’t spend too much time thinking about right now despite the way it warms his chest.

“What do you propose, then?” Arthur eventually asks, when he’s sure his voice will come out even.

“Get out of there. There’s no reasoning with Dutch and no staying behind without a fight. Leaving is the only way to save yourself.”

He’s already shaking his head. “Shit, Charles. Listen to yourself,” Arthur says, voice rough with the defensiveness he can feel building up behind his teeth. “You’re suggesting I ditch everyone and run away because I don’t like what Dutch is doing.”

“He’s leading everyone to their _deaths,_ ” Charles hisses, and this is the first time since they’ve left Shady Belle that his careful, calm façade cracks. “Arthur, they all look up to you. If _you_ decide you’ve had enough, others might finally open their eyes.” Charles is silent for a long moment, brow furrowed. “Leave with me, Arthur. Let’s escape this sinking ship before we both drown.”

Charles is a loyal man. He’s smart and honest and Arthur trusts him with his life. Here he sits, compelling Arthur to give up everything he’s ever known, to ditch their found family and save themselves from the destruction barreling towards them like a steam engine. And the worst part is that Arthur _wants_ to. There’s a clawing, desperate fear growing in him that surges whenever he sees the manic look in Dutch’s eyes, and he thinks that the more ground he puts between him and the gang, the less power this fear will have. Arthur aches for peace. Aches for an end to the pain and suffering, the fear he sees in people’s eyes when he approaches them.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Charles says, and he speaks with the voice of someone soothing a spooked horse. “Make a decision before the bank robbery.”

Arthur toys with the leather of the reins in his hands. “And if I decide to stay? What will you do?”

Charles sighs. “If you stay, I’ll stay. I won’t go it alone, not again. And I won’t abandon you.”

Arthur looks at Charles, really looks at him. There’s a tension in his shoulders, and desperation in the way he looks at Arthur, as if Arthur holds the thread of both their lives in his hands. And Arthur supposes he does. Charles has handed the reins to Arthur and is trusting him to make the right decision.

“I’ll think on it,” Arthur replies, and it doesn’t feel like enough.

Arthur spends the afternoon restless and the night sleepless. He doesn’t wander far from Shady Belle, but after a few hours staring at the ceiling, he leaves the homestead and sits on the small dock that hangs over the swamp. The daytime mugginess has eased just enough for it to be comfortable, and so Arthur sits in the moonlight and thinks. It’s not his strongest suit, anyone would agree, but he knows that if he doesn’t he’ll regret it for a long, long time. He pulls his journal from his pocket and thumbs through the pages. It’s too dark out to do any drawing, but he knows the words that rest inside, knows the doubt and the fear intimately. These words would tell him to leave, to pack up his things and ride with Charles into the west, never looking back.

Arthur’s fingers linger over a drawing of Hosea. Hosea, with a wisdom and poise that Arthur could never hope to learn. He wishes Hosea would make Dutch see sense, but Dutch has always been Hosea’s weak spot and with Dutch going more and more off the rails, Arthur can see Hosea’s tenuous grasp of some semblance of control growing shakier. If he told Hosea he was planning on running, somehow, he doesn’t think Hosea would blame him.

Arthur tips his head back and stares at the sprawling dusting of stars above him. Arthur has never been particularly spiritual, but there’s something settling about the reminder of how small he is. Does he really have the power to sway others’ opinions of Dutch just by leaving? Arthur knows what he thought when John skipped on them. Would Arthur’s exit be any different?

Arthur is so tied to these people that sometimes he thinks that there’s nothing of him left, no authentic _Arthur_ that’s for him and him alone. Untangling those strands seems to Arthur like a fool’s game.

Remembering Charles’ intense gaze in the afternoon sun, Arthur wonders if Charles sees more of him than Arthur has ever been able to.

Arthur closes his journal and swipes his thumb over the worn leather binding. Arthur has given so much of himself over the years. What does he have left? Evidently, Charles thinks there’s something in Arthur worth saving, as difficult as that is to believe.

Arthur thinks about John and Abigail, about little Jack, all caught up in this mess. He thinks about Mary-Beth and Tilly, smart and capable, of Karen, fallen so far. Of Lenny, intelligent and full of life. These are people worth saving. Can Arthur save them if he’s not around?

But Charles’ words have gotten to him. Is he leading them to their doom just as much as Dutch is?

Heart beating in his throat, Arthur stands from the dock and moves back into the homestead. The stairs creak under his weight in the echoing silence of the small hours of the morning, and he feels like a ghost moving through a household long dead. In his room, he digs through his belongings until he finds a few sheets of paper and a pen, and he sits down at the little desk in the room, pushing aside boxes of ammunition to make space.

Dawn is creeping its weak fingers through the dirty window by the time Arthur is finished, and his eyes are gritty with exhaustion as he folds the pages and tucks them into his bag. As he lets his gaze wander the dirty, peeling room he realizes that he made up his mind at some point in the night. Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes for a long moment, trying to clear some of the panic rising in his chest, but there’s a new sort of clarity filling him as well, a new purpose.

He will try to reason with Dutch one more time.

Arthur finds Dutch in the gazebo by the water, smoking a cigar with his boots kicked up on the table. He looks like a king surveying his kingdom, and the thought sits wrong with Arthur. When did Dutch stop being a mentor and a father?

“Arthur. You look terrible, son,” Dutch greets him, and Arthur shakes his head. 

“Dutch, I need to talk to you.”

Dutch’s mustache twitches, oily in the early morning light. “Is it about the bank job? Because if it is, I don’t want to hear it. I’ve heard enough of your doubting.”

Arthur huffs out a frustrated breath. “Everyone but you seems to recognize that it’s a bad idea!” he snaps. He moves forward into the shade of the gazebo and wishes he could grab Dutch by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. Maybe if he shakes hard enough, whatever madness holding onto Dutch’s brain will relent, and this nightmare will end.

Dutch pulls his feet off the table and sits forward, expression going dark. “You are wearing my patience thin, son.”

Arthur feels his own patience fraying. “How many people have to die, Dutch?”

“No one is going to _die!_ Where has your faith gone, Arthur? All this doubting and doubting. I’m beginning to think I’ve lost your loyalty.”

Arthur looks away from Dutch’s piercing gaze and out across the swamp, to the small bugs dancing over the surface of the water in buzzing clouds. “I ain’t disloyal, Dutch. I’m just thinking about people’s safety, is all, and I suppose I’m not convinced that’s your priority.”

Dutch scoffs. “When has it _not_ been my priority?”

Arthur turns back to Dutch. “This bank job is a suicide mission.”

Dutch’s expression doesn’t shift. “That’s enough, son. Don’t you have work you should be doing?”

As Arthur turns and leaves the gazebo, the world becomes over-sharp, its edges heavy and hard against his eyes. The sun is harsh and unrelenting, and its brightness muffles the sounds around him. Arthur stands in the middle of camp, a fool among sudden strangers, and tries to breathe in the air that’s growing thicker around him. The bright sun threatens to swallow him.

Arthur closes his eyes against the violent stillness and waits two seconds, three, and when he opens his eyes again, his breathing has evened and his vision is normal. He picks out Sadie where she is polishing a pistol by the storage shed, leaning against the dull wood and working the weapon to a shine. He makes his way to her.

“Sadie,” he greets, and she tosses him a friendly smile.

“Hey, Arthur. You alright?” She holds the gun up to the light, and satisfied with its gleam, tucks it back into her hip holster.

“Sure,” Arthur replies. He feels his words threatening to stick in his throat, and he pushes through. This is important. “Um. I actually have something for you.”

She looks up at him then and seems to actually see him. She frowns.

Arthur retrieves the folded paper from his pocket. It’s thick and dry under his fingers, unassuming. Arthur knows Sadie is the right person for this task, and so he gives her the letter and tells her to read it when he’s gone. He can see in her eyes that she understands, and she doesn’t ask questions. He’s grateful for her strength, and in another life, he thinks they would have been old friends. As it is, he hopes she finds what she’s looking for. He hopes she finds peace.

Arthur spends the day quietly packing, which he spaces between doing camp chores and acting like he’s interested in helping plan the robbery with Dutch and Hosea. His nerves jitter in his chest like he’s got his hand around a live wire, a buzz he can’t shake no matter how hard he tries. He worries that someone will question him, that Dutch will see through his act and keep him from leaving. Arthur has made up his mind, but he doesn’t know how he’d fare if Dutch questioned him outright.

Arthur has saved up a small bit of cash, and in the past few weeks, he’s been donating less to the camp fund, suspicious that Dutch is squirreling it away, and as he tucks it into his bag, he hopes it will be enough. 

Arthur wonders if this will be the last time he sees some of these people. The thought tugs at him as he finishes packing and the sun finally dips below the horizon.

The night is still around him as Arthur hauls his bag over his shoulder and moves through the darkness towards where he knows Charles is keeping watch. Arthur doesn’t think he’s ever seen the man sleeping, and the thought catches in his mind, something to focus on when his fears threaten to spill over into the moonlight like black blood from a wound.

Charles has his back to the stone half-wall that sections the homestead from the rest of the forest, and there is smoke gently flowing upwards from the cigarette he holds between two fingers. He lowers his hand to rest on his folded knee as he looks up at Arthur, the moonlight painting the side of his face in an otherworldly glow. His eyes land on the bag Arthur has tucked over his shoulder.

“I’m ready,” Arthur says. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Arthur hit the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An important note: I played around with the distances quite a bit in this story to make them more realistic according to the region/climates and the way the game map would fit into a real map of the US.

Arthur watches relief wash over Charles’ face, and he realizes that Charles had been _anxious._ It’s a realization that comes with an understanding of the depth of Charles’ dedication to him, and it warms him as they move to their horses and prepare them for a long ride. They don’t talk—they can’t talk without risking someone in camp overhearing, but there is an understanding between them, even as Arthur’s heart beats a frantic pattern in his chest as he feeds the bit into Penny’s mouth and tightens the strap of her saddle.

They both make very little noise as they mount up and urge their horses down the path away from Shady Belle, but every crack of branches underfoot and every small noise their horses make feels like a gunshot to Arthur, who sees Dutch behind every tree they pass.

The woods open into a grassy plain turned ghostly and white in the light of the round moon that blankets the countryside. Arthur has ridden plenty at night, but there is something about this night that feels alien, like these fields have changed and the moon that watches over them is not the one he knows. Shady Belle has disappeared behind them, leaving them in a sea of unknowns, a world turned foreign in the night.

Charles’ calming presence is a balm to the nerves clamoring in his chest and the thought that he is abandoning his family, betraying them. The jangle of conflicting emotions would be enough to render him immobile if not for Charles’ steady support.

They cut out towards the border of Lemoyne, and Arthur is grateful to be avoiding Rhodes and the complete mess they caused there. 

Arthur never asked Charles what his plan was, past escaping camp in the night, and though he wonders where this trip will take them, he doesn’t feel compelled to ask right away. He trusts Charles and breaking the silence feels like it would be a mistake.

They ride until light teases the horizon, and with it, reality begins to settle as well. Arthur can feel incredible exhaustion tugging at him, leaving no room for doubt.

“We should make camp for a few hours,” Charles suggests, and it’s the first thing either of them have said since leaving.

Arthur nods gratefully. They ride a little longer until they find a spot tucked at the base of a short cliff that will keep them out of sight of most passerby.

They make camp quietly. Arthur brushes Penny’s coat and offers her a treat, smiling helplessly when she noses at his coat with a soft burr.

Charles sees to Taima and then they leave both horses to graze as they unroll their bedrolls and Arthur sets to work starting a fire. It’s a surprisingly cool morning for late summer, and Arthur appreciates the light breeze that rolls in over the plains as he settles back on his bedroll and pulls out the wax paper-wrapped venison he packed. He hands a piece to Charles, who takes it with a soft thanks. They both packed light, and Arthur knows they will soon have to hunt for their dinner, but Charles is the best tracker he’s ever met and Arthur himself isn’t terrible at it. Their future spans before them, uncertain, but Arthur is too exhausted to think too much about it. Right now there is only the fire and the cooking meat and Charles.

They eat, and with his belly full, a jaw-cracking yawn takes hold of him.

Charles’ amusement is palpable. “Get some sleep,” he says. “I can take watch for a while.” 

Arthur lays back on his bedroll and props his hat over his eyes to block out the morning sunlight. Within moments, he’s fast asleep.

Charles had not been confident that Arthur would take up his offer to run away with him, and as they move further and further away from Shady Belle, the reality of it still sits strangely. Arthur is here with him, truly here with him, and they are escaping the terror that life in the Van der Linde gang had become in the past few months. Arthur is tugging himself free of Dutch’s oily grasp, and he is trusting Charles to be the one to help him.

For the next few days, Arthur is quiet, and though Charles doesn’t mind the silence, it doesn’t usually wrap around Arthur like a thick blanket. Charles allows him his silence, though, and retreats into his own thoughts as they ride. When they camp, more often than not, Arthur has his nose buried in his journal as his pencil skitters across the paper. Charles longs to know the Arthur that lurks between the pages of his journal. He’s seen glimpses of Arthur’s more poetic side—when they went bison hunting, Arthur had been reverent and gentle with the downed bison, and Charles can see the way Arthur’s gaze lingers on their surroundings, absorbing what most men wouldn’t think worth their time. 

Arthur, who stops to pet dogs and whistles at cats and praises his horse every time he hops into the saddle. This is the man that Charles wants to know and to save.

He knows that it’s going to take time before Arthur is okay. Arthur has been with Hosea and Dutch for twenty years, and Charles knows that kind of loyalty sticks to your bones. Charles does not resent Arthur for the trouble he’s having, and he wishes that he could take some of that pain from him, wishes he could tell him that everything will be okay and that they made the best decision. Charles only knows what his intuition is telling him, and that’s a poor balm to a man whose life has been turned on its head.

They are crossing a dirt road in outer Lemoyne, looking for a place to set down for the evening, when a shout rings out. Arthur immediately pulls his pistol, and Charles follows suit. Together they wheel around to see three men in dark clothing on horseback thundering down the road after them.

“It’s those goddamn Lemoyne Raiders,” Arthur hisses, already aiming his gun. “Nasty fuckers.”

“You boys are done for!” one of them shouts, and Charles feels a bullet whiz past his ear. The road is open and flat, and he knows that if he tries to outrun them, he will get a bullet between his shoulder blades. He urges Taima off the road and into the cover offered by a small copse of trees.

Arthur is right behind him, and together they fling themselves off their horses and duck behind a large boulder hidden among the tangle of trees. Shots ring out.

“These assholes have been the goddamn bane of my existence,” Arthur growls, poking his head out from cover and firing off two shots, and Charles watches as one of the riders tumbles off his horse and into the dirt, unmoving.

Charles takes down the second rider, but before he is able to duck back behind the boulder, he feels a sharp sting on his arm. The remaining bandit managed to graze him. He feels his teeth bare in a snarl and puts a bullet in the man’s chest. The man crumples to the ground and his horse bolts, leaving Arthur and Charles alone again.

“Nice shot,” Arthur says as they unfold themselves from their crouch. Without the gunfire and shouting, the world feels quiet.

“Thanks.” He rolls his shoulder and bites back a hiss at the bright ache in his upper arm.

Arthur’s gaze finds it immediately. “Did those bastards get you?”

“It’s only a graze. I’ll be fine.”

Arthur’s hand wraps carefully around Charles’ elbow, and he leans in to get a closer look at the wound. Charles finds himself rooted to the spot as Arthur gets close, blue eyes scrutinizing. Charles forgets the ache in his arm in favor of the warm pressure on his elbow and the nearness of Arthur’s face.

“Let’s find a place to camp and we’ll get this cleaned up, okay?” Arthur says, voice low as he lingers in Charles’ space.

“Okay,” Charles replies, and it’s a miracle that his voice comes out even.

Arthur gives his elbow a squeeze and pulls away, whistling for Penny.

Charles whistles for Taima, warmth buzzing on his arm and face, and together they ride away from the road. They find another patch of trees with a clearing just large enough to make camp. Charles’ arm stings from the wound, but he doesn’t think it’s bad enough to worry about, not even enough to leave a scar. Even so, when they finally get their camp set up, Arthur makes a point to scoot close to him and take a look at it. 

“Let me wrap this for you.”

Charles shoots him an amused look. “You know I’ve been taking care of my own injuries for a long time?”

Arthur shakes his head, already moving to his satchel where he’s stashed some gauze. “Well, you don’t have to, now. What’re partners for?”

Partners. It’s the best way to describe their new arrangement, but it still sits warm in Charles’ stomach like a sip of hot coffee on a cold morning.

Charles holds still as Arthur uses the clean water they boiled last night to wash out the wound and then dresses it carefully. Charles tries not to stare at Arthur’s face as he works, but his expression is attentive, and Charles has always found himself pulled to Arthur like a migrating bird to warmer climates.

Arthur pats Charles’ shoulder. “All done.”

“Thank you,” Charles replies.

The night is clear, the stars bright through the trees sheltering their camp. Arthur makes no move to pull out his journal like he has the past few nights, instead leaning back on his bedroll with his arms folded behind his head. “You know anything about constellations, Charles?”

Charles spares a glance upwards. “Only enough to find north.” His mother had told him stories about the constellations, but those memories were nothing but a blurry haze, a casualty of time, much like the exact shape of her eyes and the timbre of her voice.

Charles expects Arthur to reveal why he asked Charles about constellations, but Arthur simply hums and continues looking at the stars. This is the most open he’s been since they left, and Charles finds himself more grateful than he likes to admit. Though Charles appreciates Arthur’s company in any form, especially when it means they are both safe, Charles prefers an Arthur with relaxed shoulders and a grin even more. He doesn’t get to see it often.

Charles sets to work cooking their dinner, and after a while, Arthur sits up and joins him closer to the fire.

“We’ll need to go hunting soon,” Charles says as he passes Arthur a tin of beans and the venison he cooked.

“There’s no shortage of game in this area,” Arthur replies. “But I must say, I’m eager to get out of Lemoyne and into greener country.”

Charles tends to agree. His whole life, he’s had to watch his back, but there’s something about the openly hostile looks he gets in the South that have worn him down. He longs for rolling green hills and fresher air and a respite from the confederate families mired deeply in the past.

“So Charles,” Arthur begins once they’ve finished their food and are simply enjoying the warm evening. “Once we escape all this, what’s your plan?” His expression is unbothered across the crackling of the fire, and Charles is grateful for his trust. He’s willing to follow Charles into the unknown, and Charles doesn’t quite know what to do with that sort of faith.

“This country is getting smaller and smaller, ain’t it? I figured we make our way northwest, towards the Canadian border with Washington. If we need to, we’ll cross into Canada.”

Arthur looks thoughtful. “I never been to Canada.”

Charles shrugs. “Me neither.”

Arthur’s smile is lopsided. “Well, then it will be an adventure for both of us.”

Arthur pulls out a cigarette and cups his hands around the flicker of his lighter to keep the wind from tugging the spark away. He holds up the box in question, and Charles shakes his head.

Arthur takes a long drag and holds it in his lungs before letting the smoke leak slowly from his parted lips. Charles watches in helpless interest, though he makes it less obvious by pretending to tend to the fire. Arthur coughs into his sleeve, and Charles finally looks away.

The night grows quieter around them. “I’ll take the first watch if you want to get some sleep,” Charles says, pulling his rifle into his lap.

Arthur shuffles around on his bedroll until he’s got an arm under his head, facing the fire and Charles. “Don’t let me sleep too long, ya hear?” Arthur says with raised brows. “Evidence may suggest otherwise, but Mister Smith needs his sleep just as much as anyone.”

A helpless smile spreads across his face in response to being teased, and he shakes his head. “Whatever you say.”

That night marks a shift in Arthur’s attitude. As they get closer to the border of Lemoyne, Arthur’s spirit gets lighter. He jokes and asks questions and smiles. Charles almost doesn’t know what to do with this new Arthur, but he finds himself smiling and joking right along with him. For a little while, the uncertainties of what they left behind are forgotten, and Charles could almost delude himself in thinking that this is all there is—the untamed land around them, the sprawling sky, and Arthur.

“And John, as thick-skulled as he is, was already up in the rafters like a cat with dogs on its tail. You know what I did?” They’re riding side-by-side, and their horses keep a comfortable gait alongside each other while the sun beats a steady heat into their backs.

Charles replies around a wide grin. “Please tell me you didn’t bolt.”

Arthur’s smile is contagious, and he laughs through his reply. “I bolted! Hosea had to go get him a few hours later, and when John saw me again, he was red with fury. Hosea couldn’t even reprimand the two of us for it, he was laughing so hard.”

Charles barks out a laugh. “You and John were terrors.”

“Oh, we were the worst, no doubt about that.”

Charles knows Arthur and John have a difficult relationship, and he often wishes he could have seen the two of them, young and scrappy and getting into trouble together before the weight of responsibility settled on their shoulders and pulled them apart. Before fatherhood, and the law, and betrayal.

Arthur falls quiet for a few long moments, and Charles spends a moment watching him out of the corner of his eye. The way the edge of his mouth dips in thought, the thick stubble on his jaw—his beauty is something that often catches Charles unaware in moments when he forgets himself. Arthur, with his golden hair and blue eyes and a smile that sneaks in so rarely it should be treasured.

“Charles, I was wondering.” He trails off, and the way he rubs a hand over his jaw gives away his nerves. “Do you think we could make a pit stop at the Emerald Ranch Station?”

“That’s two days out of our way,” Charles responds. 

Arthur sighs. “I suppose I’m wondering if there’s any news. Emerald Ranch would be the place to get it.”

“Is that wise?” Charles asks. “Could bring attention to us we don’t want.”

Arthur shakes his head. “I don’t know. All I know is I left behind family right before they were fixin’ to dive headfirst into danger.”

Something like a big city bank robbery is bound to make a splash, and Charles has no doubt a train station clerk would be the best person to ask, but he can’t help the jangle of nerves that grows in his stomach at the thought of prolonging their journey, of being spotted by Pinkertons or O’Driscolls. But Arthur came with him and denying him this feels like it would be a betrayal.

“Alright. But we need to keep a low profile.”

Arthur lets out a breath, relieved. “Thank you.”

Charles nudges Taima closer to Penny and ducks his head so Arthur meets his gaze. “I’m not the only one making the calls here, Arthur. You said it before. We’re partners in this. I sure as hell won’t be issuing orders.”

Arthur gives him a tentative smile. “You really are something, you know that?”

Charles smiles back. “Sure.”

The dry bed of Dewberry Creek crackles under their horses’ hooves, a sign that this area hasn’t seen rain in far too long. Charles can feel it in the parched air, and he can’t help but sympathize with the land. It’s been stretched thin with no reprieve in sight, and those who rely on it are still taking and taking.

Finally, they cross the border into New Hanover, and Charles lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Had been holding their whole time in Lemoyne.

“If I never set foot in that state again, it will still be too soon,” Arthur grumbles.

“You and me both.”

When they camp that night, it’s on grass that doesn’t crackle under their boots, under a sky that feels crisper and cleaner and air that doesn’t stick in the lungs. Charles isn’t thrilled about rerouting their trip to Emerald Ranch, but just being out of Lemoyne has lifted his spirits enough that his worries are a background hum.

Earlier that day, Charles caught two rabbits that he cooks over the fire as they bed down for the night. The pop of cooking fat fills the space between them.

Arthur is sketching something, the motions of his hand too broad and smooth to be letters. He’s got his lower lip pinched under his top teeth, and Charles finds it endearing. So long Charles has allowed Arthur this hobby without question, but tonight, in the clear air and under the sprawling stars, he feels brave enough to ask.

“What are you drawing?”

Arthur hums and looks up. “Nothing important.”

“Art doesn’t have to be important,” Charles replies. “That’s the beauty of it.”

Arthur shrugs. “If you say so.” He stares down at his work and falls silent for a few moments. “You want to see it?”

Charles realizes what exactly Arthur is giving him, and he has the sensation of stepping out onto a frozen lake, feet slipping dangerously beneath him as the ice creaks under his feet. He doesn’t want to break through.

“Only if you want to show me.”

Arthur shrugs again, but he leans over so he can hold out the journal. “Don’t, uh—” He clears his throat. “I’d prefer if you stay on this page.”

Charles takes the open journal gingerly, the worn leather warm under his fingers. The page that Arthur was working on is full of flowers, lovingly detailed and labeled. Indigo, prairie sunflowers, milkweed, and aster all worked out in Arthur’s talented hand.

“These are incredible,” Charles says, and though he wants to run his fingers over the page in awe, he doesn’t dare smudge the careful lines of graphite. Charles has always known Arthur to be observant, but there is something about the care in which these flowers are depicted that makes Charles realize that he truly had no idea the extent to which Arthur notices the natural world around him.

“Oh, you’re just flattering me.” Arthur has his chin tucked down in a way that would normally hide his expression under his hat, but his head is bare and Charles can see the embarrassment twisting his features.

“I’m serious, Arthur. You have talent.”

Arthur reaches out, and Charles hands back the notebook without protest. “I’ve just been doin’ it a long time, is all.”

Charles wants to argue with him, to prove to him that his skill is nothing to be shrugged off, but he knows it will only get Arthur keyed up. Instead, he asks, “What got you into drawing?”

Arthur thumbs the edge of the journal now that it’s back in his hands. “One of the first things I bought with my own money was a journal a lot like this one. I had just started running with Dutch and Hosea, and I completed my first successful robbery. It was only about twenty bucks, but to a kid with no money to his name, it felt like a fortune.” There is a sad smile teasing his mouth as he speaks, and he stares down at the journal in his hands instead of meeting Charles’ gaze, lost somewhere in those memories. “Writing in a journal became a way to get the tumbling thoughts out of my head, ya know? Drawing helped to quiet my mind.”

Charles wishes Arthur would look up and meet his gaze. “I can understand that. It’s part of the reason I enjoy working with my hands. Clears the mind.”

Arthur looks up at him then, and there’s a lock of golden hair that’s come loose and fallen over his forehead charmingly. “Folks have asked about my journal, but you’re the first that hasn’t poked fun at me as he does it.”

Charles frowns. “Seems cruel to mock a man for something he enjoys, especially something so harmless.”

Arthur falls silent after that, but as the night deepens around them, Charles can feel Arthur’s eyes on him when Arthur thinks he isn’t looking.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emerald Ranch, telegrams, and rain.

Emerald Ranch is just as strange as Arthur remembers it, with its peculiar folk and secrets that he never got a chance to investigate. Something stirs uncomfortably in his stomach at the sight of it, and Arthur thinks it might be the hint of civilization when he and Charles have been so blessedly alone. Maybe it’s the chance of being recognized and sold out.

If Arthur didn’t have a reason to be here, he would follow Charles away from this place as quickly as possible.

Charles lingers by the horses as Arthur makes his way up the creaking steps of the tiny train station. The clerk gives him a friendly smile as he approaches.

“How can I help you today, sir?” he asks as Arthur steps up to the counter.

“I was wonderin’ if you might have any news from Saint Denis. My cousin moved there last month, and I’ve been a bit worried about big city crime. He hasn’t written me, you see, and it’s making me nervous.”

“My sister moved to New York last year, so I understand you intimately, sir,” the clerk chirps back. He’s young, with a smooth voice and a dusting of stubble, and Arthur can’t help but think of himself at that age: angry, lost, and self-destructive in the face of his life falling apart in front of his eyes. Dutch and Hosea had saved him from both the cruel world and himself.

He hopes Hosea is okay. Dutch is hell-bent on the path of destruction, and Arthur fears Hosea will do nothing but follow him.

“I’m afraid there’s no news, sir, at least nothing noteworthy enough to get out this far. But we haven’t received a telegram in a few days, sir. We’re expecting one tomorrow morning.”

Arthur sighs. “Thank you. You have a nice day now.”

“And you as well!”

Arthur finds Charles adjusting Taima’s tack while speaking gently to her. Arthur smiles at the sight.

“Any news?” Charles asks without pausing in his task.

“Nothing that traveled this far,” Arthur replies.

“A bank robbery in a city like Saint Denis would have been big enough news,” Charles replies. “Which means to me that they didn’t end up going through with the job.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.” It’s been over two weeks since they left Shady Belle, and he wonders how their departure affected the gang, if at all. He doubts Dutch changed his tune, but there’s a chance the others were less thrilled about the bank job two men down.

Arthur shifts his weight, hitching his thumbs into his gun belt nervously. “Something tells me that Dutch won’t give up so easily. What if this is nothing but a delay? What if he goes through with the robbery anyways?”

Charles finally looks away from Taima and meets Arthur’s gaze. “There’s nothing much we can do about it either way.”

“I know, but—” He cuts himself off with another sigh, dragging the toe of his boot in the dirt.

Arthur feels Charles come close, and a warm hand settles on his shoulder. “Arthur, I wish I could promise you that everyone we’re leaving behind is safe. I wish I could rid you of whatever guilt you’re feeling, but I can’t do either of those things. Beating yourself up about it won’t help them.”

“I don’t expect you to,” Arthur replies. “I suppose for me, it’s better knowing than not knowing. Helps me feel like I’m not forgetting them.”

“I would never accuse you of forgetting the gang,” Charles replies. “You care more than anyone.” Charles pauses, and his hand slips from Arthur’s shoulder. “More than Dutch.”

Arthur looks away, across the rolling hills of the Heartlands and spots a deer grazing in the distance, its white tail flicking. “I want to stay here a night,” he says. “They’re expecting a telegram tomorrow morning, and there could be news.”

He can feel Charles’ posture tense without even having to look at him. “Arthur, that’s a huge risk. All it takes is one person here recognizing us.”

“I _know,”_ he snaps, and then more calmly, _“_ I know.” Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to reign in his frustration. Charles is right, of course he is, but Arthur can’t leave without knowing for sure. It would haunt him for months. “We don’t have to stay at the ranch. We can camp nearby, and then in the morning we’ll only stop here long enough to see if there’s news, and then we’ll move on.”

Charles hides his own frustration well, but Arthur can see it in the line of his shoulders and the pinch of his mouth. Charles only wants to keep them safe, and Arthur is throwing a wrench in his plans. He wishes it were different, but he doesn’t know what else to do.

“I’m sorry, Charles, but please, give me this. One night.”

Charles grinds out a heavy sigh, an outward sign of irritation that’s unusual for him. “We’ll camp down the hill, out of sight.” He gathers Taima’s reigns from the hitching post. “Come on.”

Arthur hurries to follow him, shame heating his face as he climbs into his saddle and urges Penny to follow Taima. Arthur put that stiffness in Charles’ shoulders, that thundercloud on his face, all because he can’t leave behind the world they’re both running from.

They set up camp at the foot of an incline that hides them from view of Emerald Ranch, and Charles immediately unties his bow from his saddle. “I’ll be back.” He stalks off into the growing dusk, and Arthur lets out a breath.

Charles is the best man Arthur has ever known, no doubt about it. He’s loyal and brave, and he has a sense of honor that Arthur’s always struggled to maintain. Charles could have left on his own and started a new life, but he brought Arthur with him, knowing that the gang would have destroyed Arthur had he stayed. Arthur feels clumsy and ungrateful, sitting by the fire in this open country as the light of day leaves the land while Charles hunts for their dinner when they could easily be halfway to Valentine by now.

After the fire is crackling calmly, Arthur sees to both Taima and Penny, making sure both are fed and brushed. He doesn’t remove their saddles because he knows they will need to be ready for an ambush in the night. He gives them each a sugar cube to make up for it, and Taima snuffs happily at his chest as he smiles.

“I’m a big ol’ moron, you know that?” he says to her. “Can’t do anything right. Pissing off your Charles.” He pets her velvety nose and she ducks her head so he’ll scratch her forelock. “I don’t deserve him, not in the least. Wonder how long it will take him to realize that.”

After tending to the horses, he wanders back to the fire and settles on his bedroll. It’s as he’s contemplating pulling out his journal that he hears footsteps. He turns around and sees Charles approaching, pheasant thrown over his shoulder.

He doesn’t speak as he settles by the fire and takes out his knife to begin preparing it to cook. Arthur watches his quick hands cut the bird open with an ease of a man who’s done it more times than he can count. He skins it easily, and then sections off pieces to cook.

Arthur accepts the meat handed to him gratefully. “Glad to have you with me, Charles,” he says, and he hopes his words carry the weight of more than just this moment. He is grateful for Charles, always, and not just because of his hunting skills.

“There’s nowhere else I’d be,” Charles replies, and Arthur makes eye contact with him across the fire. There is no lingering frustration in Charles’ gaze, and Arthur feels some of the tension leave his shoulders. Arthur is sure Charles will eventually realize that Arthur isn’t worth his time and attention, but they haven’t reached that day yet, and Arthur is going to take advantage of every moment with Charles he has and try not to feel like he’s living on borrowed time.

Arthur takes first watch, and an uneasiness fills him as he keeps his gaze fixed on the dark rolling plains. In this small dip of land, there is no sign of human life. The road sits up past the incline, well out of view, and Emerald Ranch is far enough away that the sounds of the animals are distant and muffled. Arthur feels eyes on the back of his neck, and though he knows he’s imagining it, it’s a hard feeling to shake.

He rouses Charles later than they agreed on, and when Charles sits up in his bedroll and glances at the moon, his brows furrow in mild confusion.

“Sorry, I lost track of time,” Arthur replies.

Charles shakes his head, but he pulls out his rifle and settles in to take watch. Arthur quickly falls into an uneasy sleep, his dreams full of lawmen and ropes that burn his wrists.

The morning is grey and still when Arthur jolts to a groggy wakefulness. They make quick work of the camp and hurry to Emerald Ranch, which is sluggish in the thin morning light. The two farmhands that Arthur spots are going about their duties slowly, likely wishing they were still in bed.

“I’ll wait out here for you,” Charles says, keeping his distance from the station. “Make it quick.”

“Of course.”

Arthur doesn’t like how still the air is, how quiet. It feels as though any moment there will be an explosion, a terrifying climax of sound and danger. Some of the most gruesome executions have happened on mornings like these, when the crowd is just getting out of bed but eager to start their day with the violent administration of justice.

The same clerk is there when he dismounts Penny and approaches, and he gives Arthur a strange smile. “We just received our telegram, sir. You wanted news from Saint Denis, correct?”

“That’s correct.”

“Well, sir, there’s been a few noteworthy events there the past few days. The one that’s most alarming, though, is the bank robbery.”

Arthur feels his stomach sinking to his feet. “Bank robbery, huh? Did anyone get hurt?”

“No civilians, sir. There’s no other information, though. I think the Saint Denis police are keeping a tight lock on information until they can get a handle on the situation.” The clerk swallows, throat bobbing nervously. “Mr. Morgan, sir—”

Arthur only has long enough to realize that he never gave the clerk his name, when a shout rings out.

“Arthur!” It’s Charles, and as soon as the thought registers, the butt of a rifle nails him in the side of his head, and his vision bursts with black stars.

Arthur stumbles sideways and instinct has him kicking out with his foot as he goes down, receiving the pleasing thump of his assailant going down with him. Gunfire rings out as Arthur bolts to his feet and stumbles down the station steps. He blinks rapidly to try to free the spots from his vision, his head a booming blackness of pain.

He throws himself behind a carriage that’s parked out front, horses likely taken into the barn, and hears the ping of gunfire hitting the side. He throws a glance backward and sees Charles lingering by a copse of trees, and Penny must have bolted towards him when the shooting started, because he’s got both horses near him as he ducks behind a tree and takes aim at the men shooting at the both of them.

Arthur finally looks back at the station and sees a handful of men, and their hats and coats show them to be Pinkertons. Arthur curses. He has no idea why a group of Pinkertons would be interested in just the two of them when they are going after Dutch, but they pose a significant danger regardless. Arthur and Charles need to get out of here, and fast.

If the bank robbery was successful, and everyone was able to get out, then the price on their heads has likely skyrocketed. Arthur imagines he and Charles are a tool the Pinkertons want to use to find the rest of the gang, and their goal here is to capture one of them. Well, Arthur is not going to give them the satisfaction.

He takes aim and brings down two men, and when he hears a break in their fire, takes off towards Charles. His head is throbbing madly, and his breath stings sharply in his lungs, but he makes it to the copse of trees without a bullet in his back. Arthur takes down three more from the cover of the trees.

“Let’s get out of here!” he shouts.

Charles gives him a sharp nod and they both throw themselves into their saddles. It takes little coaxing to get their horses into a full gallop away from the gunfire. Arthur hears shouting behind him as a few Pinkertons try to chase them on horseback, but they have enough of a head start that they make ground quickly. They take a sharp turn at the base of a hill and head straight into the woods, and after a few tense moments, Arthur is sure they’ve lost them.

His vision is swimming and his gut roils something awful. They’ve stopped by a small stream, and Arthur takes that moment to stumble off his horse in the hope that getting solid ground under his feet will stop the spinning. His insides twist at the motion, and he barely has time to lurch to a bush before he’s retching.

After a few moments, he feels a hand on his shoulder blade. He wipes his mouth with his shirt sleeve and releases a ragged sigh. His canteen is pushed into his hand.

“Drink.”

Arthur looks up to see Charles standing beside him. There’s something tense in his face, but Arthur doesn’t have the energy to focus on it. He takes the canteen and downs a few mouthfuls.

“Fuck,” he curses. The world has stopped spinning as much, but a headache has set in, a dull, heavy throbbing that sits at his temples.

“Can I take a look?” Charles asks, and it takes Arthur a few seconds to realize he’s talking about where Arthur got clobbered.

Arthur tips his chin in invitation, and Charles places a hand on his jaw to hold his head still as soft fingers probe the injury. It stings, but Arthur doesn’t move.

“This’ll be nice and tender for a while, but it doesn’t look like your skull is fractured.” Charles turns Arthur’s head so he’s looking him in the eye. Charles’ gaze flickers from eye to eye. “Can you list species of fish for me?”

“Can I what?”

“Just answer the question.”

Arthur huffs out a breath. “Sturgeon, big mouth bass, pike, trout, pickerel.” He pauses. “Bluefin tuna.”

Charles lifts a hand. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three.”

“How’re you feeling?”

“Well, I’ve got a headache and some lingering dizziness, but it seems to be clearing up a bit.”

“If it gets any worse, please tell me.” He pulls away and Arthur misses the warmth of his hands. There’s an awkward moment where Arthur stares down at the canteen in his hands and feels Charles’ gaze on his face.

“Well, are you gonna let me have it?” Arthur asks. “ _I told you so, Arthur, I told you this was a dumb idea.”_

“Not much use in that, is there?”

“If it makes you feel any better—”

“It won’t.” Charles moves away from him, and that’s almost worse. “Was there any news?” he asks as he checks Taima for injuries after their mad dash of an escape.

“There was a bank robbery in Saint Denis, but they had no other information. Don’t know if everyone got out alive. They didn’t even mention Dutch or Hosea.”

Charles climbs up into his saddle. “I’d say that means the robbery was successful. Sounds like the city is trying to keep a muzzle on the chaos.”

Arthur feels anxiety bubble in his stomach, but he climbs up into Penny’s saddle and follows Charles as he sets off in the opposite direction of Emerald Ranch, towards Valentine. “You really think they did it?”

“Dutch may be losing his touch, but he’s still cunning,” Charles replies. When they leave the patch of forest, the grey morning has turned into a dreary day. The clouds promise rain, and the wind that tumbles over the plains is thick with the tension of an oncoming storm. They make decent headway by the time the heavens open up, and Arthur ducks his head to avoid the worst of the downpour. He’s not a stranger to riding in the rain, but the thought of everything they own getting soaked through is not pleasant.

“There’s an empty cabin not far from here. I say we wait out this squall,” he says, having to raise his voice over the roaring of the rain.

“Lead the way,” Charles shouts back, and they make their quick escape.

The cabin is dusty and in disrepair, but it’s mostly waterproof. Arthur drips on the floor as he moves to the fireplace to see if he can get a fire started. There’s some firewood stacked by the fireplace that’s dry enough to catch when he holds his lighter to it, and Arthur is able to get a decent sized fire going by the time he steps back. Charles starts laying out their clothing that got wet so it will dry in the heat of the fire.

There’s a single bed, the wood grey with age, and a table, its chairs scattered and broken. The kitchen is tiny and Arthur doesn’t even bother checking the cabinets. The last time he was in here, this place was picked clean, and there’s no reason to think that’s changed.

The crackling fire and the rain pouring outside make the dismal accommodations almost cozy, and Arthur settles in one of the usable chairs with a groan. His head is still throbbing, but it’s a background hum to the aching of his bones and the stress from the day that’s slowly easing. This sort of life eats at you, Arthur thinks. If a bullet doesn’t kill him, he’s sure the stress of always looking over his shoulder might finish the job. He coughs into his elbow and watches as Charles shrugs out of his coat and lays it out to dry with the rest of their clothing.

Charles looks over at him. “You want to hang yours up?”

It takes Arthur a second to realize that Charles is talking about his jacket, but once he does he quickly shrugs out of it and hands it to Charles, who drapes it on the mantle.

Charles has been even quieter than usual since their escape from the Pinkertons that morning, and it’s not the usual comfortable silence they share. This silence is tense, brittle.

“Listen,” Arthur begins. Falters. Charles is looking at him from where he’s sat on the edge of the bed, and Arthur suddenly doesn’t know how to approach what hovers in the air between them.

“You don’t have to apologize, if that’s what you’re trying to do,” Charles says. “You found out what you wanted to find out. It had the consequences we were expecting it to have. We got away.”

Arthur pulls his hat off his head and runs a hand through his hair. The end of it is damp where the water ran off his hat and he feels it drip onto his neck. “I guess I was plannin’ on thanking you. For putting up with me.”

“You don’t have to do that either,” Charles replies, and his voice is still flat. Arthur wishes he knew what to say to make the situation better, but he’s never been good at saying the right thing, and he’s afraid that if he keeps talking, he’ll just dig himself deeper. The heavy rain on the roof mocks him.

Silence fills the cabin for a few long moments. Charles rings his hair out, soaked as it is, and Arthur finds himself drawn to the sight of the dark locks twisting beneath strong fingers. He looks away and into the fire.

“You need to decide which direction you want to go, Arthur,” Charles says out of the blue, and Arthur meets his gaze across the tiny cabin. His brows are pulled together. “You can’t be in two places at once. You can’t run away from something you’re refusing to leave behind.”

“Now that’s unfair, Charles. I’m here with you, aren’t I? I ain’t running back to Dutch.”

“You risked your neck and our escape to get information about them, information that won’t help them or you.” His voice has lost its flat quality, but in its place is a sharp edge that grates.

“I wanted to know if any of them had _died,_ and I don’t think that’s unreasonable.”

“It wouldn’t be unreasonable if we weren’t wanted men, but Arthur, you almost got captured by Pinktertons because of that detour. We could have waited until we were somewhere safe to find out if there was news from Saint Denis.”

“Halfway across the country?” Arthur shakes his head. “Listen, Charles, I ran away with you, and I still believe it was the best choice, but if someone was in danger and I thought I had a shot of saving them? I’d go back. No doubt about it, I’d go back.”

That seems to take whatever fight was coiling in Charles right out of him. His shoulders dip. “I know.” He heaves a sigh and Arthur is struck by how tired he looks, suddenly. “Your loyalty to them is honorable,” Charles says, “But I wonder if any of them would do the same for you.” 

Arthur frowns, and his first instinct is to argue, but there’s something that holds him back. Discomfort bubbles in his stomach.

“I think you need to consider that your devotion to the gang is one of the things Dutch is using to keep you tied to him,” Charles says, and whatever irritation that had been tangled into their conversation before is gone. Charles’ voice is gentle, soothing. “How many times did he tell you that his questionable plans were the only way to keep the gang together, to keep them safe?”

“Far too many.”

“Everyone in that gang but Jack is capable of making their own choices. We showed them that leaving is an option. If they follow Dutch into danger, that’s their decision. It shouldn’t be your responsibility to fix their mistakes.”

Arthur picks at the splintering wood of the kitchen table, feeling it crumble under his fingertips. “That’s easier said than done. I’ve been taking care of those folks for a long time.”

“I know you have. But you don’t owe them your freedom, Arthur, not after everything else you’ve given them.”

“It’s not about _owing—”_ A hacking cough stutters up from his lungs, sharp and painful, and he turns his head to hide it in his sleeve, startled by its intensity. By the time he can breathe easily again, there’s a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. When he finally looks up, he sees that Charles has crossed the room and has a broad hand gripping Arthur’s shoulder, brow furrowed.

“Are you alright?” Charles asks.

Arthur heaves a breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. There must be something in here that’s botherin’ my lungs.”

Charles doesn’t seem assuaged by that, but he backs away after giving Arthur’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “We should get some sleep while we have a roof over our heads.”

Arthur eyes the bed with a hint of trepidation. “You can take the bed,” he says, already getting up to find his bedroll. “Sleepin’ on a mattress will only remind me of Shady Belle.”

Arthur grumbles as he realizes his bedroll is still damp, and it takes him a second to realize Charles is watching him from where he’s sat at the edge of the bed. Arthur looks over at him in question.

“There’s no reason we can’t share,” Charles says, and his tone of voice is unaffected, like he’s asking Arthur to come hunting with him, not to share a bed.

“Uh,” Arthur replies elegantly.

“Your bedroll is damp. I don’t know what you have knocking around in your lungs right now, but sleeping in a damp bedroll on hard wood is not going to help it.”

Arthur stares at him dumbly, wet bedroll still clutched in his hands.

Charles begins preparing for bed like Arthur isn’t staring at him, and that breaks Arthur out of his stupor. “Alright. Only if you’re okay with it,” he finally says.

Charles looks up from where he’s removing his boots. “Of course I’m okay with it.”

The bed is big enough for two, but neither Charles nor Arthur are small men. The wooden frame creaks as Arthur settles in beside Charles, who’s got his back to him already, facing the wall. Arthur swings his legs up and tugs the blanket over his shoulder. It’s been a long time since he’s been in a bed with another person, and the warmth of Charles’ body next to his is strange but pleasant.

“G’night, Charles,” he says.

“Goodnight, Arthur.”

The rain is still pounding, unrelenting on the roof, but the fire crackles peacefully, and warmth builds under the blankets, leaving Arthur more comfortable than he’s been in months. There’s still a strange scratching in his lungs, but sleep quickly tugs him under, and their run-in with the Pinkertons and the headache still pressing behind his eyes becomes nothing more than an errant background thought as he falls into the deepest sleep he’s had in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there was one bed


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Charles run into a friend. Or two.

Charles wakes up when the rain stops, which turns out to be a little after dawn if the angle of the sun through the dirty window is anything to go by. Arthur’s still got his back to him, and Charles realizes that while Arthur still sleeps, getting out of bed is going to be a challenge. So instead, Charles shifts onto his back and stares up at the aging wood of the ceiling which is still strong enough to keep out the rain despite its weathered appearance.

He thinks about that rifle hitting the side of Arthur’s head and the way he had dropped. The fear of losing Arthur grips him even now, safe in this cabin far away from Emerald Ranch and even further away from Dutch who would see to Arthur’s end one way or another. Charles thinks there’s still a chance that Dutch will be responsible for Arthur’s death, and the thought makes his desire to get as far West as possible more urgent. 

Charles is contemplating getting up from bed anyway when Arthur groans and stretches, his socked heel brushing against Charles’ ankle.

Charles wishes he could see Arthur’s face as he wakes, but the thought is shocking and dangerously tender, and he shoves it aside as Arthur pulls himself to consciousness.

“The rain finally stop?” Arthur asks, voice raspy with sleep.

“Seems that way,” Charles replies.

Arthur lies still for a few moments and then swings his legs out of bed, back popping as he stretches. Charles watches as he staggers to his feet and digs around in his satchel sitting on the table. “You want some coffee?” he asks.

“If you’re preparing it, sure.”

“S’the least I can do after the night we had.” His face immediately reddens. “Er.”

“Didn’t know you were such a gentleman,” Charles replies, and he watches Arthur’s eyes widen. Smile on his face from catching Arthur off guard, Charles sets to work rolling the blankets and bedroll back up as Arthur goes back to preparing the coffee.

There’s a weird energy between them, and Charles can’t quite put his finger on what it is. There’s something tentative and fragile forming between them, and Charles is desperate not to break it in the watery light of morning. They didn’t quite reach an agreement yesterday, but they reached an understanding, and Charles hopes that will be enough to last.

By the time their coffee is prepared, their packs are ready to be loaded back on their horses. Charles takes the tin mug that Arthur hands him. “How’s your head this morning?” he asks.

Arthur takes a large swig of his coffee and shrugs. “Mostly just sore in the spot he hit me. No dizziness or headache.”

“Good.”

They finish their coffee and load up their horses. As they leave the little cabin behind them, the morning is fresh with the feeling of a world reborn after the rain. Charles breathes it in greedily as they hit the road once again.

“I never really asked you what your plan for getting west was,” Arthur says close to midday, his head tilted curiously towards Charles.

“I thought it would be safest to travel on horse until at least Valentine, possibly the base of the Grizzlies, and then take the train over the mountains.”

“You think the train is safe?”

“If we have to, we’ll bribe the conductor. It’s better than trying to survive a trip across the mountains. I’ve got some money saved.”

“I do too,” Arthur admits, and Charles is glad they haven’t needed it yet. “Is it wise to set foot in Valentine, even just long enough to board a train? We caused quite the commotion there.”

“I don’t know. It will get us west faster, but we risk being spotted.”

Arthur chews on the inside of his mouth in contemplation. “This is going to sound stupid, but hear me out.”

Charles can’t help the grin that spreads on his face at that. “I’m listening.”

“What if we wore disguises?”

Charles feels his eyebrows climb in response. “What kind of disguises?”

Arthur shrugs. “I dunno. Something that makes us look less like lawless cowboys and more like two innocent strangers moving west.”

“And where do we find clothing like this?”

Arthur scratches his chin. “Haven’t thought that far,” he admits.

“Well, I think it’s a decent idea. We have a while yet to figure it out.”

Summer is warm on the Heartlands but more forgiving than in Lemoyne where moisture sat heavily in everyone’s lungs. Despite the heat, the air is clear, and unlike in the South, the mornings and evenings are cool and allow them a blessed respite from the heat. They make their steady trip across the plains, hunting and camping and getting as many hours of travel out of their horses each day as possible. So far, they’ve managed to avoid the law and the Pinkertons, and Charles allows himself to exhale.

They are three days out from Emerald Ranch, cresting a hill of the Heartlands when Charles hears an explosive noise. His gaze is drawn to the sound, and he sees a strange sight.

A few meters away from them, situated precariously at the top of an incline where the land pulls upward into a cliff that overlooks a small valley, is a man with a camera. He’s got his hands on his hips as he stares down into the valley where a handful of buffalo are grazing, and his boater hat is askew.

“Well, look who it is,” Arthur says beside him, and there’s a funny grin on his face.

“You know him?” Charles asks. The man hasn’t noticed them yet, poking at his camera with single-minded focus.

“I’ve run into him a few times. He’s a good man.” And with that Arthur turns Penny in the man’s direction. Charles has no choice but to follow, bewildered.

“Mister Mason!” Arthur says when they’re within earshot, swinging his leg around and dismounting.

Mason’s arms flail in alarm, and it takes him a moment to register who spoke to him. When he does, a smile brightens his face. “Mister Morgan!”

Charles watches from a short distance, unsure and not ready to dismount just yet. He knows Arthur has a tendency to help random folk he finds while on the road, but this level of friendliness has to be from more than one encounter.

“What’re you trying to capture this time? Cougars? More wolves?” Arthur asks, and he climbs the incline to stand on the outcropping with Mason.

“Ah, no. This time, it’s bison!” He makes a sweeping gesture to the land below.

The herd that wanders in the valley is small compared to the one he found with Arthur that first time. That day has stuck with him, and he often finds himself thinking about Arthur choking that hunter, big hands wrapped around his windpipe to end his life, all because Charles told him to. After his bubbling anger had cooled, he had thought about the way Arthur didn’t question him once and only acted when Charles needed him.

“Who’s your friend?” Mason asks, and Charles breaks out of his memory to see the man looking down at him.

“This is Charles Smith,” Arthur replies. “Charles, this is Albert Mason.”

Charles dips his head in greeting and Albert gives him a cheeky wave. “Mister Smith, sir, there is no one better to accompany you than Mister Morgan here. You have chosen your riding partner wisely.”

Charles grins at that and looks at Arthur, who’s got an embarrassed expression on his face. “Is that so?”

“Arthur here has saved my life a number of times! You see, I’m a wildlife photographer, and I specialize in the more dangerous species. Photography requires some proximity, and well. Arthur has prevented my death more times than I’m comfortable admitting.”

Mason is a thin, nervous man who looks about as comfortable in the wild as Charles would be in New York. He doesn’t doubt that Arthur has had to save his life if the man’s career involves taking pictures of wolves.

“I saw your gallery in Saint Denis,” Arthur says. “Now, I don’t know much about photography, but seemed to me they were good pictures.”

“Why, Mister Morgan, you flatter me!” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck self-consciously. “Well, they liked my work enough to pay for me to come back out here, so here I am! Back on the frontier.” He glances at Charles in curiosity, his eyes lingering on their bags. “Are you two traveling?”

“Heading out west,” Arthur responds.

“I hear California is lovely this time of year,” Albert replies.

Arthur eyes him with a calculating expression. “Say, Mister Mason, you wouldn’t happen to be traveling to Valentine any time soon?”

“It just so happens that that’s where I’m staying. I’m heading there as soon as I pack up my equipment. Why do you ask?”

Arthur glances at Charles and then back to Mason. “I’m sure you’re aware of who I am,” Arthur says in a lower, more serious voice, a contrast to the friendly tone he’s taken with Mason thus far.

Mason frowns. “I’ve seen a newspaper, yes. Your pictures aren’t very flattering, Mister Morgan, I must say.”

Charles feels some of his anxiety ease and he sees why Arthur likes this man. He’s friendly and doesn’t seem to care he’s in the company of two outlaws. That, and he seems to have an appreciation for the land that most men do not, and that’s something he has in common with Arthur and Charles alike.

Arthur sighs. “Charles and I, well, if we’re going to catch a train west, we’re gonna need disguises. We can’t go into Valentine without them.”

Mason brightens. “Clothing! That’s the least I can do after you saved my skin so many times.”

“It would be much appreciated,” Arthur says. “Why don’t you ride with us the rest of the way to Valentine?”

Mason is already packing his equipment in sure, quick motions. “Do you know there are poachers lurking out here?” he says, picking up his bags and turning to them.

“Charles and I had an unfortunate run-in with them a few months back,” Arthur replies.

“Nasty people. They did not appreciate my opinion on their line of work.”

Arthur groans as he climbs up into his saddle. “Tell me you didn’t antagonize armed poachers.”

Mason fastens his bags to the saddle on his nervous mare. “Well. It’s not something I’ll be doing again, I assure you, unless I have someone like you by my side.”

“Yeah, well, Charles and me are not a fan favorite of the poachers.”

Mason perks up at that, but Arthur doesn’t elaborate, and Charles is grateful. That day sits close to his heart, both terrible and important.

As they make their way to Valentine, a day and a half journey from where they picked up Mason, Charles learns that Mason talks _a lot._ He’s not irritating like Sean--he doesn’t boast and cajole like Sean--but he babbles nervously to fill the silence that Charles and Arthur usually bask in.

He also asks questions, and Charles finds himself the surprised recipient of a few of them. That evening, Arthur volunteers to catch dinner, and when he takes Penny off into the distance, Mason turns to him.

“Have you known Arthur long?” He seems interested in watching Charles start the fire, and so Charles speaks while he works.

“A little under a year,” he replies. “Feels like longer.”

Mason hums. “I won’t presume to ask you about your situation. I know the life of an outlaw can get complicated quickly. But there’s something romantic about going on the run with a friend, especially when you’re both as capable as the two of you certainly are. I suppose I envy you, Mr. Smith.”

Charles pauses in his task and looks over at Mason. “Envy us? We’re on the run from the law. If we get caught, we’ll likely be hanged.”

Mason waves his hand. “Oh, I knew I would say that wrong. I don’t mean to make light of your situation.”

Charles sits back from the fire, now steady and full, and gives Mason his full attention. “It’s easy to envy a life that’s not your own,” Charles says. “I’m glad that Arthur is with me, but the only reason we’re doing this is so we can live a peaceful, honest life. Unfortunate events have led us to where we are now.”

Mason gives him a strange look. “Would you two have known each other otherwise? From the jaws of misfortune, we sometimes find our greatest gifts.”

Before Charles can respond, they hear the telltale sound of hooves on prairie grass.

Arthur leaves his horse to graze with Taima and Mason’s mare and enters the circle of firelight, two rabbits in his grip.

“You fellers miss me?”

Mason doesn’t continue his strange rambling, and the three of them settle down to cook and eat. Charles listens to Arthur and Mason discuss what Mason will be taking pictures of next, and Charles watches Mason, wondering.

Mason speaks of Charles’ relationship with Arthur like it’s something unobtainable, something he desires. What does Mason see between them? Charles doesn’t like to make assumptions about men he doesn’t know well, but Charles knows what to look for, and Mason has his tells.

Charles pushes this line of thinking aside and focuses on the crackle of the fire and the distant yip of coyotes. If all goes to plan, he and Arthur will be on a train by this time tomorrow, headed deep into the mountains and hopefully, away from all their troubles in the east.

They bed down for the night, and Charles dreams of pine trees and a cold, clean wind.

Mason is quieter as they get closer to Valentine. The day is warm, and dark clouds hang in the distance. Charles thinks there will be storms this evening.

“What sort of disguises are you two looking for?” Mason asks when they can see the worn wood buildings of Valentine in the distance. Charles and Arthur will wait here for Mason.

“I was thinking something that makes us look like rich tourists. City folk,” Arthur replies. This morning, he’s got dark smudges under his eyes that speak of a lack of sleep.

Mason smiles. “That I can do. I’ll have you two looking like regular dandies!” He gives them both a once-over and frowns. “Do you two by chance know your dress sizes?”

The blank stares he receives in response are answer enough.

“Well, I’ll have to make do, then.”

Mason agrees to meet back up with them in an hour.

They spend the time making sure their bags are packed correctly so they can be separated from their horses while on the train and hiding their weapons in their bags. No need to look suspicious immediately.

Mason finds them again a little after noon, and there’s a triumphant grin on his face. “I hope you two are ready for a transformation the likes of which you’ve never experienced before.”

He hops off his horse and unties a burlap bag from the back of his horse. “I do hope everything fits. There’s nothing worse than a man with style who knows nothing about fit.” He opens the bag and gives them both a critical look. “Why don’t you two go wash up in the river? Men of money don’t normally smell of horses. No offense intended, of course.”

Arthur heaves a sigh and takes the bag of clothing from Mason.

Mason pats his pockets and pulls out a pocket watch. “Oh, dearie me. I lost track of time. I have an appointment to catch.”

“Thank you for your help, Mister Mason,” Arthur says. “It’s always a pleasure to run into you.”

Mason smiles. “Well, I’m certainly glad this meeting didn’t involve my near death.” His expression shifts into something more somber. “I hope the two of you find what you’re looking for. It’s a cruel world, but you are both men worthy of happiness.”

He gives both Arthur and Charles a firm handshake and mounts his horse. With one last flick of his fingers in a friendly salute, he turns and heads back to Valentine.

“Well, I suppose we should go put this stuff on,” Arthur says, and they climb onto their own horses and make their way to the Dakota to wash.

The Dakota, despite the warm weather, is freezing, and Charles tries to wash as quickly as he can. He spends longer on his hair than usual, using his fingers to comb out any tangles and wondering how the two of them could possibly be successful impersonating men of class. He keeps his back to Arthur, and though privacy is a thing of luxury when on the run, he’s hyperaware of Arthur’s state of undress behind him.

The clothes are exactly what Charles expected them to be: suits and frilly ties and boots of hard leather. Getting into the clothing is a process, and the sun beats down unforgivably as they both pull on too many layers of cotton. Charles’ clothes are a decent fit, though the coat pulls at his shoulders and arms a little, not meant for a man of his strength.

Charles is struggling to adjust his tie when Arthur steps into his line of sight. His outfit is similar: a maroon vest over a crisp white shirt, topped with a purple coat, its polished buttons shining in the sun. He’s holding a bowtie and frowning.

“Do I need the tie?” he asks.

Charles can’t help smiling at the sight, and Arthur’s frown deepens. “Just put it on, Arthur.”

Charles watches as Arthur loops it around his neck and fumbles with the fabric. He curses when it slips from his fingers.

“Let me help you with that,” Charles says, stepping forward. Arthur stills as Charles pushes his hands aside, throat working under the press of his collar.

“Where’d you learn to tie a bow tie?” Arthur asks, and there’s a catch in his voice that Charles can feel down his spine.

“My father,” Charles replies. The fabric is soft and cool under his fingers. “Told me it would be useful one day. I suppose he was right, though I imagine this isn’t what he had in mind.”

He tugs it into place and admires his handiwork.

“How do I look?” Arthur asks.

Charles reaches into the bag and pulls out one of the two hats that Mason left them. This one is flat-brimmed with a band of fabric around the center that matches Arthur’s coat. He affixes the hat to Arthur’s head, smiling at the disgruntled expression it earns him. “You look like a cowboy trying to be a city man.” Charles tilts his head. “Have you considered shaving?” Arthur doesn’t quite have a full beard, and though Charles thinks the scruff suits him, it certainly adds to the rough edges Arthur still wears, even when fixed up like this. And the scruff is a feature of every wanted poster Charles has ever seen of Arthur.

Arthur runs a hand along his jaw. “Alright. Don’t got a mirror on me, though.”

“I can help.”

They find a rock that Arthur can sit on, and Charles kneels in front of him with a razor. The puff of Arthur’s breath on his hand and the way his eyelids flutter when Charles uses his fingers to hold his face in place makes something heavy and warm settle in Charles’ stomach, and the scrape of the blade on Arthur’s skin is loud between them. Arthur’s scruff quickly disappears under Charles’ careful ministrations, leaving him looking younger than Charles expected, face smooth and clean. He tilts Arthur’s chin up so he can reach his throat, and when his blade slides along the tender skin there, their eyes meet, and Charles’ breath catches. Have Arthur’s eyes always been so blue?

He finishes up in a few more swipes and sits back.

Arthur rinses his face in the river and sets the hat back on his head. “Do I look like a city man now?”

His shoulders are too broad, and his face is too weather-worn, but Charles thinks anyone looking for Arthur Morgan will be hard-pressed to recognize him in the man standing before Charles. “I’d say so,” Charles replies. “Just the kind of man I’d avoid.”

Arthur snorts, and it’s then that the ridiculousness of the situation sets in. Helpless laughter tumbles out of Charles’ mouth.

Arthur looks at him funny. “You laughin’ at me?”

Charles shakes his head. “No, it’s just--” He gestures between the two of them. “We’re dangerous men, on the run, and here we are worrying about things like ties and matching hats. Those pants are hideous,” he says.

Arthur stares down at the green fabric, stiff and lightly pin-striped. He looks back up at Charles. His face splits into a wide grin. “They’re awful.”

They both break into laughter, the kind that pulls from the stomach and grips tight. Charles doesn’t know the last time he heard Arthur laugh like this, full-bodied, his eyes crinkled at the corners and his teeth flashing.

“We’re a coupla’ fools, huh?” Arthur says through the dregs of his laughter. He turns his head and coughs, and the sound is rough.

“Fools, maybe. But we’re alive and will hopefully stay that way,” Charles replies.

Charles digs in his satchel and finds a hair tie which he uses to pull his hair into a tight knot at the base of his head. He tugs the second hat—also flat-brimmed—onto his head. “What about me?”

“Fancy sure looks dashing on you, Mister Smith. More so than me.”

He can feel his face heat and is grateful that Arthur is suddenly distracted by packing their clothing away. “So, what do you say we catch a train?” Arthur says, and he shoots Charles a grin.

It’s strange stepping into Valentine again, knowing the chaos they caused there. Charles wasn’t a part of the shootout, but he remembers how frustrated Arthur was following that incident, the way his shoulders stiffened at any noise, the gruffness with which he treated the German family. Charles thinks of that day as the beginning of the end of Arthur blindly following Dutch.

Barely anyone looks at them, and though Charles isn’t quite relaxed, he’s grateful for the blanket of anonymity they’ve given themselves. The town bustles around them, people shouting and going about their day in the mud and muck, unbothered by the two killers that walk among them. Charles and Arthur lead their horses towards the train station and hitch them outside before stepping through the creaking double doors. It’s dim and musty inside, and the only other people present are the station clerk and a couple that bickers quietly by the back doors.

The clerk greets them as Arthur steps up to the window. “I’d like to purchase two tickets for the earliest train heading through the mountains. And two spaces in the horse carriage.”

“There’s one this evening, sir, if that suits your needs.”

“Yes, perfect.”

“Names, please?”

Arthur hesitates. “James Rainer and Percy… Adams.”

Charles hangs back while Arthur handles the transaction and takes the tickets from the clerk “Who knew train travel was so expensive,” he says with a shake of his head as he returns to Charles. “Beats crossing the mountains on horseback, I suppose.”

“Arthur,” hisses a familiar voice, and both Charles and Arthur turn to see Sadie striding towards them quickly.

“Sadie?” Arthur asks, bewilderment creasing his features.

“Oh, don’t ask so surprised. You told me how to find you, and the train is so much faster than roughin’ it. Perks of nobody knowing who I am.” She throws a glance at the station clerk, who’s watching them curiously. “Let’s talk outside.”

They find a spot outside the station and Sadie turns to them. “You two alright? You sure look fancy.”

“We’re doing fine, all things considered,” Arthur replies. “Had a run-in with the Pinkertons but got away. Don’t think they know where we went.” Arthur leans forward toward Sadie. “How is everyone?”

Sadie sighs. “Well, Pearson, Mary-Beth, Uncle, and Swanson have jumped ship. Right after the bank job, they high-tailed it.”

Arthur’s eyes widen, and it takes him a moment to speak again. “How did the bank job go?”

“When the two of you left, Hosea convinced Dutch to change his approach. They went in quietly at night. Got out with half the money they had planned, but no one was hurt. It was still a dumb as shit idea, and it didn’t help that Dutch spent nearly an hour ranting at everyone about loyalty after he realized you and Charles left.”

Sadie shakes her head, her blonde braid sliding against her shirt. “He’s in a bad way. Won’t listen to anyone but Micah, and Hosea ain’t taking it well.”

There are a hundred questions in Arthur’s eyes, but Sadie holds out a hand. “Listen, Arthur, I know you’re dying to know what’s going on, but you left for a reason. Let me handle it, okay? I’ll get John and Abigail out. Trust me.”

Arthur coughs into his elbow, and when he lifts his head again, the dark smudges under his eyes look worse. “I do trust you,” he replies in a scratchy voice. “Thank you, Sadie.”

“You two take care of yourselves, you hear?”

“You too, Sadie,” Charles says.

She gives them each a firm pat on the shoulder and then turns, heading back into Valentine.

When she’s out of earshot, Charles turns to Arthur. “Are you sure you’re alright? That cough sounds bad.”

Arthur waves him off. “I’ll be fine. Let’s just get on this train.”

They have a little time to kill, but neither of them feels great about spending too much time in the town proper, so they linger in the train station. Arthur procures a deck of cards from somewhere, and they commandeer one of the small tables to play a few rounds of blackjack. Charles isn’t good at it, but he doesn’t mind, content to spend some time idle.

An hour before their train is scheduled to arrive, Charles begins to feel the buzzing of nerves under his skin. He wonders if their disguises are good enough. He knows he’s recognizable, and together, they stand out, two broad men with the scars of fighters. Valentine is a small town, and if just one person takes too close a look and decides to make their life trouble, they’re done for.

They get their horses ready and are waiting on the platform when the train crests over the horizon, a loud metal beast cutting its way through the land. It eases to a stop at the station and the conductor hops out to greet them. It’s just Arthur, Charles, and the bickering couple, now quiet either because their argument was resolved or because they’re distracted.

The conductor stamps their tickets. “This way to the stable car.” He leads them back along the train until they get to a carriage that’s a different style than the others, its windows higher up the side. A young man hops out and takes up the leads of their horses. Arthur slips him a few coins, and he tips his hat in response.

“I’ll take good care of them, sirs,” he says, leading their horses up into the train. “Don’t you worry.”

The conductor leads them into the passenger car. “Any seats of your liking. Dining car is two down in that direction,” he points a gloved finger. “I’m Mr. Patterson. Just wave me down if you need anything.”

The passenger car is quiet and only half-full. Charles follows Arthur to a bench at the back of the car, and they slide in together.

“The conductor didn’t bat an eye at us,” Arthur says, leaning in so his voice is barely heard. “I hope that’s the pattern from here on out.”

“Best keep on our toes,” Charles replies, but he’s also grateful for the ease that they boarded the train. 

The train chugs to a start, and Valentine slowly disappears behind them, making way for greener country that slips past the windows as the train hums steadily towards the mountains, which right now are nothing but a grey line in the distance. The train car is a bit stuffy, and with the steady rocking of the car, Charles feels his nerves settle to a gentle simmer. No one in this car has given them a second glance.

Mason chose their clothing well. They fit right in with the other passengers, and though Charles’ tie feels tight on his throat, he doesn’t think either of them is wearing the clothing awkwardly enough to stand out.

The bright green of New Hanover slowly seeps into the deeper, coniferous green of Ambarino as the train climbs in altitude. The conductor makes a few passes, and neither time does he do more than glance at the two of them.

That’s when the reality of it sinks in. They’re free. Arthur is with him, safe, and they’re quickly headed towards a new life, one of peace and freedom. Charles wants to cry with relief. They’re not out of the woods yet, not really, but the trees are thinning and the light of day is saturating the darkness, finally.

A warm hand squeezes his knee. “You alright there, Charles?”

Soft blue eyes are fixed on his face when Charles comes down from his line of thought. “Yes. I’m just fine.”

Arthur seems to pick up on a little bit of his mood, because he smiles in response. “That’s good to hear. Me too.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all problems can be left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends I feel like garbage here's some fanfic to ease the pain.

Their journey passes in honeyed moments, one blending into the next. Arthur falls asleep to the gentle rocking of the train and he dreams of open land with no buildings for miles and miles. He’s not alone. No, there is a warm presence next to him, and Arthur feels calmed by it, comfortable down to his bones in a way that’s completely unfamiliar. He reaches out, and a warm palm meets his, fingers intertwining with his own. Charles’s smile is open and carefree, and Arthur’s heart aches. When he wakes again, he wonders how long it’s been Charles’ face in these dreams and not Mary’s.

Even in second class, long train journeys are not pleasant. Arthur feels boxed in and trapped. Snow begins to dot the land outside the windows which turns into heavy blankets of white fluff as the train makes its way deep into the Grizzlies. The only things keeping Arthur from going completely stir crazy is the thought he’d rather be in here than out in that terrible weather, and Charles, wonderful Charles whose demeanor remains calm and steady.

“There’s a tiny town that sits about a hundred miles from the Canadian border,” Arthur says on their third day. They haven’t been doing much talking, but Arthur doesn’t mind. It feels like a mistake to fill up the silence with too much conversation when he’s just as content to sit beside Charles in his own thoughts. “It’s a mining town, or it used to be. Quaint. I’ve never been there, but I would hear folks talk about it. Seems to me it’s a good place for us to start, see if we can snatch up some land nearby.”

Charles hums. “I’m looking forward to the quiet.”

“Me too.”

Charles is beautiful. Arthur has always known this. It sticks with him now, though, when they are both so out of their element, stuffed into clothing not made for men like them. Arthur feels dirty and false in these clothes, but Charles is just as elegant in them as he is wearing a worn jacket and riding pants. Arthur wonders what they look like together. He knows they strike fear into the hearts of their enemies, but what if they weren’t immediately read as a threat? Do they look like they belong together, or are they two incompatible pieces of a puzzle?

The train stops at a small town in the mountains, and a few haggard souls get on, focused more on getting warm than on the other people on the train. Arthur thinks about their harrowing time in Colter and shivers involuntarily. Those memories are sharp and stinging, like hands stiffened by the cold. The only warm spot in those memories is that hunt with Charles. Charles’ voice was warm, even in the biting cold.

Arthur is surprised that there has been no Pinkerton patrol, and though he’s not complaining, it seems strange that after the trouble they had in Emerald Ranch they were able to get out so easily. Maybe whatever Dutch is doing has distracted them. It’s not a great thought, but Arthur has no energy to worry too much about it.

The train begins its descent out of the mountains, and though they still have a journey yet, with a mountain range between them and their problems, Arthur feels some of his anxiety ease.

The tickets Arthur purchased will take them to the border of California and Oregon. They’ll have to travel the rest of the journey on horseback, but Arthur is already looking forward to a trip in the clear western air, a sky over their heads instead of the glossy boards of the passenger car.

Snow turns into green grass, and a gentle summer greets the train as it leaves the mountains and cuts through the bright green of the western countryside. Arthur stares out the window at the full trees and the fields of yellow grasses tugged by the wind. He wants to feel it on his face, more than anything.

When he glances at Charles, he sees the same enchantment reflected in his dark eyes. They are both men of the land, and this land is like nothing else.

“I’m going to go grab a smoke out in the back,” Arthur says, getting to his feet. Arthur has been making use of the observation platform as much as possible, and now that they’re back in warmer country, he wants to get some of this air in his lungs.

Charles nods. He’s got a little book in his hands that Arthur has seen him holding a few times and he wonders what it is. He can’t make out the title from this angle.

Arthur turns to head to the back and suddenly, a violent cough crashes out of his lungs. He muffles it into his elbow, but the cough has a tight grip on his windpipe, and his lungs don’t want to clear. He grabs the back of a bench seat to keep standing, desperately trying to suck in air that won’t come.

“Arthur?” Warm hands on his shoulders, steadying.

He coughs and coughs, and darkness eats at the edges of his vision.

He’s pushed down onto a bench and Charles’ face swims into view. “Arthur. Easy.”

Arthur’s coughing turns into wheezing when he runs out of air, and when he’s certain he’s going to pass out, he’s finally able to pull air into his lungs. It rasps in his throat and shakes in his lungs, but he’s able to breathe again.

“Shit,” he groans, running a hand over his mouth. There’s blood on his fingers when he looks down at them.

“This ain’t good, Arthur,” Charles says, and his brows are pulled low over his eyes in worry. “You’ve got blood on your mouth.”

“Sure as hell didn’t feel good,” Arthur says. There’s fear thrumming through his body, and the shaky aftermath of panic. He doesn’t know what caught hold of him, but Arthur knows what sickness of the lungs does to men, and he can’t afford that, not now. He thinks about Thomas Downes, the rattling of his cough as Arthur’s fist clenched in the fabric of his shirt. He knows that if he caught whatever the man choked at him in that moment, it’s retribution.

“When we get to Oregon, we’ll find a doctor, okay?”

Arthur nods, suddenly exhausted. Charles sits down next to him. “Get some rest, okay? We can go to the back of the train after that. I’m sure some fresh air will be good for your lungs.”

Oregon greets them with air so fresh it’s sweet and sunshine that kisses their faces. Getting off the train is a blessing, and their horses seem to be just as happy to get off as they are. Penny noses Arthur’s shirt affectionately, and he chuckles at her antics. The train station is situated on the edge of a mining town called Greensburg that’s bustling with action. It’s about the size of Blackwater, and Arthur wants to leave this place as quickly as they can.

Greensburg is nestled at the base of a small mountain range, and Arthur can see its ramshackle origins in a few of the buildings, but it’s grown since the Gold Rush, and now is a hub of life under the mountain.

This far west, Arthur feels anonymous in a way he hasn’t felt since way before Blackwater. No one here knows them, and the feeling of being too large in his skin eases.

“We need to find a doctor,” Charles says as they make their way into the town.

“I’m fine, Charles.”

Charles shoots him a glare. “You’re not fine, Arthur. You’re coughing up blood.” There’s a pinch to his features that Arthur recognizes as concern. Arthur doesn’t deserve his concern, but short of telling Charles not to worry about him, he knows there’s not much he can do but comply with Charles’ demand that he see a doctor.

They make their way to the main street of town and their horses’ hooves clop gently on the cobbles. Though most of the commercial buildings are labeled, a doctor is not among them. There’s a man leaning against the outside of the Post Office smoking a cigarette, and Charles turns to him. “Is there a doctor in town?”

The man squints at him and shakes his head, grey mustache quivering below his nose. “Doctor Terrance left a few months back and no one has stepped up to replace him. You’ll have to go to Ashill if you want good medical care.”

Ashill, it turns out, is directly northward and a good place to stop before continuing their journey. “Thank you,” Charles replies, and they continue leading their horses down the main street.

“I’ll be okay, Charles. We should keep moving.”

“We can afford one night here, get up our strength before moving on.”

Arthur wants to continue moving as quickly as possible, but exhaustion drags at his bones, and the thought of settling in an honest-to-god bed for the night is incredibly appealing. “Alright.”

They board their horses in a nearby stable, and by the time they make their way up the steps of the hotel, the sun is nothing but an orange sliver on the horizon, throwing golden light on their backs. The hotel is plain, but Arthur never cared much for opulence. A roof over his head and a bed is all he needs.

“Can I help you?” the man behind the front desk asks.

“Two rooms,” Charles says.

The rooms are just as plain as the lobby, but Arthur falls into the bed and is asleep within moments. In the morning, when light is filtering through the dingy windows and spilling across his face, Arthur gets up to take advantage of the hot baths offered. His breath is rattling in his lungs, and the hot water eases some of the tension in his chest and allows him to breathe a little easier.

Charles is waiting for him when he enters the lobby. “I picked up some supplies,” Charles says. “Packed up our horses. Whenever you’re ready to hit the road, we’re all set.”

“Why, Mister Smith, if you don’t leave some of the work to me, I might get spoiled.”

Charles’ grin is a gift. “Well, maybe that’s my plan.”

His hair shines, hanging loose over his shoulders, which means he also had time to bathe along with getting them ready to go, and Arthur wonders what he would do without Charles, without his guidance and his support and his strength of will. He also thinks about how soft Charles’ hair would be under his fingers, and though he stomps on the thought as soon as he thinks it, the feeling lingers.

There’s only so much lying to himself he can do, and as they step out into the watery light of morning, it begins to dawn on him that he might be in trouble. Warmth floods his face as he recognizes his feelings for what they are—he’s hopelessly attracted to Charles, might even be falling for him, and ain’t that a stupid thing to do when you’re on the run with someone. And Charles, Charles deserves so much more than him.

Their horses are hitched outside the hotel, brushed and fed and ready for the journey ahead of them.

Arthur coughs as he moves to mount his horse, and the motion becomes stilted and awkward. A warm hand rests on his side, steadying, and he looks down at Charles who came to stand by his horse to make sure he made it up into the saddle okay. Worry twists his features.

“Easy there, cowboy,” Charles said, voice pitched low so Arthur is the only one who can hear him. His hand lingers before pulling away and Arthur feels it long after Charles has mounted his own horse.

Arthur gives Charles a grateful nod, unable to do more than that as he sets his hat on his head. It feels good to be back in his normal clothing, with his favorite hat protecting his eyes from the sun. The grip on his lungs keeps him from feeling truly like himself, but the clothing helps.

They set out, and the town of Greensburg slowly disappears behind them. The Oregon wilderness is beautiful, and it tugs at Arthur’s heartstrings. Yellows and greens and browns overlap in a stunning array of colors that glow in the summer sun, and Arthur itches for his journal so he can sketch the rich fields and the line of mountains in the distance.

They ride slower than they did on the other side of the Grizzlies. There’s no one pursuing them out here, and it feels nice to enjoy their surroundings and take their time.

Arthur isn’t sure he’d be able to go any faster, and he wonders if Charles senses that.

They camp earlier and leave later than they ever did in the east, and Arthur likes it. There’s no rope tightening around their necks, and they can enjoy each other’s company without feeling like they’re on borrowed time.

Three days pass this way, and Arthur thinks they will be alright, and then Arthur’s sickness takes a turn for the worse.

He wakes up shivering in his bedroll, his body a line of aching pain. There’s sweat on his face, and there’s iron on the back of his tongue. His lungs burn, and coughing hurts. He squints his eyes shut to keep out the morning light.

“Charles, what time is it?” he rasps, and a figure eclipses the sun as it leans over him.

“Arthur, you look terrible.”

“Feel terrible.”

A cool hand rests on his forehead and Arthur can’t help leaning into the touch.

“You’re burning up.” The hand pulls away and Arthur hears a rustling noise. “You need to drink some water. Will you lift your head up?”

Arthur does his best to comply, opening his eyes a sliver as Charles presses the canteen to his mouth and helps him to drink a few greedy swallows. He settles back with a heavy groan and a few hacking coughs.

“We need to get you to a doctor,” Charles says. “Ashill is a few hours away. We could reach it by midday if we start now, but I’m worried about moving you.”

“I won’t be able to sit a horse,” Arthur says as the world swims around him.

“You can ride with me,” Charles says, and Arthur blinks his eyes open and tries to focus on what Charles is saying. “I won’t let you fall.”

“Whatever you think’s best,” Arthur mumbles. He feels Charles get up, and then his awareness goes hazy for a while. There’s clinking and rustling and the shadows of movement, but it feels separated from him, like it’s happening behind fogged glass. He dozes off.

“Arthur.” A hand on his shoulder. He breaks the surface of consciousness and squints up at Charles.

“Can you scoot off your bedroll?”

Arthur does so, feeling sweat bead on his forehead as he sits up and watches Charles pack up the last of their camp. Charles has loaded everything onto Taima, leaving Penny with nothing but her saddle.

“Penny is bigger. She’ll take our weight easier.” Charles leans down. “I’m going to help you stand, okay?”

Arthur gives a short nod, and Charles grabs Arthur’s hand, using it to loop his arm over Charles’ shoulders. Charles anchors his own arm around Arthur’s back. “On three.”

Charles heaves Arthur to his feet, and the world goes topsy-turvy for a few moments. Arthur sucks in a breath and then coughs. His throat is raw, and his lungs are two bright swaths of pain.

“Easy there,” Charles soothes. “You good?”

Arthur breathes for a second and the world slowly steadies. “I’m good.”

Getting Arthur up onto the horse is a precarious act. Arthur gets a foot in the stirrup and feels Charles’ hands settle on his sides. When he pulls himself up, Charles does most of the work of getting his weight up so he’s able to get his leg over. With shaky arms, Arthur pushes himself out of the saddle so there is room for Charles in front of him.

Charles swings up into the saddle. “Our goal is to keep you from falling off, cowboy,” Charles says, and there is both affection and worry in his voice as he takes Arthur’s wrist and loops Arthur’s arm around his middle, effectively holding Arthur in place against his back.

“This alright?” Charles asks. His voice is a deep rumble that Arthur can feel in his chest. He almost forgets to reply.

“Yes.”

Taima follows behind them as Charles urges Penny into a trot, one hand holding the reins and the other keeping Arthur’s arm firmly locked around his middle. Arthur is an achy mess, but Charles is a warm line across his front, and eventually, the steady rhythm of the horse pulls him into a doze.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halfway across the country from where they began, Arthur sees a doctor.

Charles has never been a religious man. His father and mother’s religious beliefs differed, and though they both offered him a place in those beliefs when Charles ended up on his own, his religion extended to his hands that could do the work to help him survive and the land that kept him alive.

In this moment, with Arthur feverish and sick on the horse behind him, forehead heavy on Charles’ shoulder, he wishes he had a god or deity to ask for help, to ask for forgiveness. Charles doesn’t know what sickness is warming Arthur from within, but the rattling cough that has settled in his lungs is not a good sign. Charles can’t help the fear climbing in his throat as he urges Penny towards the town whose doctor is their only chance.

The Oregon wilderness, so beautiful yesterday, mocks him as it continues to stretch, unending, into the distance in front of them.

Life hasn’t been kind to Arthur Morgan. It’s taken from him again and again, and it isn’t done. With a cold fear in his stomach, Charles wonders if his life will be the last thing it takes, far too soon.

Charles keeps Arthur’s arm held against his middle, a mockery of a lovers’ embrace, and pushes Penny faster. She’s a strong and loyal horse, and she takes their weight without much trouble. Tonight, Charles will make sure both her and Taima get a long rest.

They reach Ashill as the sun begins to dip towards the horizon. Ashill is smaller than Greensburg, and its population is more curious, judging by the way they watch in open interest as Charles rides through the central street.

He pauses near the bank where an older woman is reading a book on the bench outside. “Where is the doctor?”

Her gaze flickers to Arthur, who is awake but obviously out of it, and then back to Charles. “Last building on the left.”

As Charles climbs off the horse and hitches both Penny and Taima outside the doctor, Arthur coughs and coughs, shoulders hunched and face pale and sweaty.

“Come on, let’s get you inside.” Charles holds up his hands and gingerly helps Arthur off the horse. Arthur isn’t light, but Charles isn’t lacking in strength, and for that he is grateful. He loops Arthur’s arm over his shoulder and they make their way precariously up the steps and into the dim front office.

The lady working the front desk stands up as soon as she sees them. “I’ll get the doctor right away.” She darts through a swinging door at the back of the room and reemerges a few seconds later. “Dr. Barnes is ready. Take him on back.”

Charles pushes through the swinging door and into a small examination room.

“Help him sit here,” the doctor says, gesturing to the chair in the middle of the room. He’s a short, balding man with thick glasses, and he hovers by Charles’ side as Charles eases Arthur down.

Arthur is a sweaty mess, and his eyes are unfocused in a way that tells Charles he’s not really in this room with them.

Charles steps out of the way as the doctor sits on the stool next to Arthur. “What are his symptoms?”

“He’s been coughing for a few weeks now,” Charles says. “The coughing took a turn for the worse a few days ago when there was blood on his mouth. Woke up this morning burning up.”

Barnes listens to Arthur’s lungs, sticks a thermometer in his mouth, and feels his throat with two fingers. “He’s got bronchitis,” he finally says, turning to Charles. “Get him someplace warm, make him drink plenty of water. If his fever gets worse, you can put him in a cold bath.”

“He’ll recover?” Charles’ heart is beating in his throat.

“He’s strong. Bronchitis is dangerous, but its fatalities are usually the elderly, children, and people who are already sickly. This one should be alright, as long as he rests. But don’t get cocky, you hear me? Bronchitis is nothing to laugh about.”

Something like relief washes over Charles, so strong it leaves him lightheaded. When Charles had seen the blood, he had expected the worst.

The doctor gives Arthur something for the pain, takes his payment from Charles, and then sends them on their way.

“Charles?” They have just stepped out of the doctor’s office when Arthur seems to gain some awareness.

“Arthur, we’re headed to a hotel for the night, okay?”

Arthur simply nods and takes a little more of his own weight as they trudge across the street and into the hotel. The clerk takes one look at them and offers Charles a first-floor room which he accepts gratefully.

The room is small but comfortable, and when Charles eases Arthur onto the patterned comforter, he feels a tug of relief.

Arthur groans. “Am I dying, Charles?”

Charles squeezes his shoulder. “No, you’re not dying. You’re sick, and you need to rest until it passes.”

Charles can tell by the way Arthur’s eyelids flutter that he’s losing the battle with sleep very quickly. “I ruin everything, don’t I?” he mumbles, a soft frown on the corners of his mouth.

Charles rests a hand on his forehead, feeling the skin burning beneath his touch. “I think it’s the other way around, Arthur. I think the world ruins you.”

Charles helps him out of his boots and pulls the threadbare blanket on the end of the bed over him, knowing that getting him under the comforter will be too difficult a task right now.

Arthur falls into a fretful sleep, and Charles leaves him with a glass of water on the nightstand and a note to let him know he’s out running a few errands. Charles leaves their horses with a friendly stable boy and laments the fact that he didn’t pick as many herbs while on the road as he wanted to. He heads into the general store and buys the herbs he needs to make a salve that should ease Arthur’s breathing. He thinks about the plants lovingly sketched in Arthur’s steady hand on that page in his notebook, shared with Charles like a secret.

The shopkeeper hands him a bundle of herbs and the few other things Charles requested, giving him a friendly smile behind his beard. “Anything else, sir?”

“Do you know of anyone renting a room? My friend is sick, and I’d like to avoid a prolonged stay in the hotel,” Charles says.

The shopkeeper tilts his head thoughtfully. “The rancher down east of the town usually has a room or two for rent, though he don’t take well to rough folk, so mind how you go. You might check with him in the morning.”

“Thank you,” Charles says with a nod. He leaves with his purchases and makes his way across the street and back into the hotel. Nightfall is fast approaching, and when Charles steps back into their room, it’s dark enough to be treacherous. He sets their bags on the table in the corner and glances at Arthur’s sleeping form. From here, he can just make out the steady rise and fall of his chest, a welcome sight.

Charles feels hunger tug at his stomach. They should both eat something. The clerk gives him a bored smile as he steps up to the front desk. “Do you serve food, or should I cross to the saloon?”

“We have a small menu, yes,” the clerk says, and he pulls a small sheet of paper from behind the desk and hands it to Charles.

Ten minutes later, with two bowls of hearty vegetable soup in hand, Charles reenters the dark room. He sets the food on the table in the corner, crosses to the nightstand and uses the pack of matches sitting there to light the lantern on the side table, which throws shadows across the room.

Arthur is lying curled on his side, and there’s a frown on his sweaty face—even his dreams are filled with hardship.

Charles gives his shoulder a squeeze. “Arthur.”

Arthur groans.

“I brought food for you. You need to eat.”

Arthur groans again, but this time his eyelids flicker open. He stares up at Charles with a confused expression. “Wha’sat?”

Charles picks up one of the bowls of soup and sets it on the nightstand. “Hot soup. I bet this will make you feel a little better,” he says. “Can I help you sit up?”

Arthur sits up with Charles’ hand on his arm, supporting. He takes the bowl and spoon from Charles. “Thank you,” he says, voice nothing more than a rasp in the artificial silence of the hotel room. 

Charles sits in one of the two wooden chairs, angling it so he can watch Arthur, who slowly takes spoonful after spoonful of soup, his gaze distant. There’s still a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and Charles remembers the herbs in his satchel. He sets his empty bowl aside and pulls out the herbs and the tiny mortar and pestle he carries with him.

He’s nearly finished working the plants into a paste when Arthur starts coughing again. It’s an awful sound, and it makes Charles’ throat ache in sympathy.

Arthur sets the half-empty bowl on the nightstand and leans back against the pillows, face pale.

“I mixed something that should help your breathing,” Charles says, and Arthur’s gaze shifts sluggishly to him. “Might help you rest easier.”

“Whatever you think’ll help, I won’t say no,” Arthur replies, and he settles deeper into the pillows.

Charles approaches across the dim room with the small bowl of salve. Arthur’s shirt is already unbuttoned at the top, so all Charles has to do is pull it back slightly. “This is going to be a little cold,” he says, and then scrapes a little of the salve onto his fingers before smoothing it carefully onto the area of Arthur’s chest under his collarbone.

Arthur hisses, but his features even out soon enough. “Feels nice,” he murmurs. His eyes flutter closed.

Charles tries not to get distracted, but the lamplight dancing on Arthur’s calm features and the heat of his skin under Charles’ fingers gives Charles a feeling of longing stronger than he was prepared for. He sucks in a breath that he only gets away with because Arthur is dozing, and Charles reminds himself with a vicious inner voice that Arthur is sick and this is the last line of thinking Charles should be going down.

Charles smooths the last of the salve onto Arthur’s chest and sets the bowl aside. “You should drink a little more water before you sleep.”

Arthur grumbles, but he swallows a few mouthfuls of water from the glass on the side table.

That night, Charles takes up the other half of the bed, though sleep does not find him. He listens to the ebb and flow of Arthur’s breathing, sure that if he falls asleep it will stop. The night slowly ticks on, and Arthur keeps breathing.

Charles visits the farmer the next morning, after checking on Arthur and saddling Taima, who is happy to see him, judging by the bounce in her gait as he rides her out of town. The ranch is further away than Charles would like, but he’s sure he can borrow a cart for Arthur to lay down in, if need be. This would be the worst time to make Arthur sit a horse, and Charles wants to avoid it if he can.

When the farmer answers the door, he greets Charles with a grizzled frown that’s etched deep into the lines of his face. “What do you want?”

Charles tries to make himself look as small and harmless as possible. “My friend and I are looking for a place to stay. A warm room with a roof over our heads is all we’re asking. He’s sick.”

The man eyes him critically, gaze landing on the scar on Charles’ chin, the wear of his clothing. “We don’t want no trouble here,” he warns. “And, mister, you wear trouble on you like a coat.”

“My friend is sick. I don’t have time for trouble. We just need a warm room for a few days, until he’s back on his feet.” Charles lets a hint of pleading into his voice and watches the farmer’s expression turn thoughtful. “I can provide an extra set of hands on the ranch while I’m here. I’m a hard worker.”

“Fine,” the farmer says, crossing his arms. “You’ll help me fix my fence. The wood is heavy, and I’m not young anymore.”

“Thank you,” Charles says earnestly, and he feels some of the worry in his chest ease.

“Go collect your friend and I’ll show you your room.”

Charles heads back into town as the day turns grey and cool. The summer is on its last legs, and though cold weather won’t hit for some time yet, Charles hopes that they will be settled down long before the first snowfall of the season. His thoughts have started straying more and more to cabins and ranch houses with fires crackling merrily in the open fireplace and land wild enough that the claustrophobia of the east is a thing of the past.

The stable in town has a wagon that they lend to Charles with the insistence that he bring it back by the end of the day. It’s a simple wagon—a flatbed with an open back and shallow walls just high enough for someone to lean against. Charles gives the horse pulling the wagon a gentle scratch on his nose before climbing up into the driver’s seat and parking the wagon outside the hotel.

When Charles returns to Arthur, he’s dozing fitfully. Charles lays a hand on his shoulder. “Arthur, we’re getting out of here. I found us a room at the ranch down the road. It will be more comfortable.”

Arthur pulls to wakefulness and groans. “You’re always working so hard,” he says, and Charles isn’t sure how lucid Arthur is, but he allows Charles to help him to his feet and lead him out of the hotel.

“You get a ride of luxury,” Charles says with a smile as he helps Arthur into the back of the wagon.

“My very own stagecoach,” Arthur replies, and he leans back against the side of the wagon with a sigh. “You sure know how to pamper a fool.”

Something sticks in Charles’ throat when Arthur looks at him, eyes full of sincerity. Charles climbs into the driver’s seat and turns to look back at Arthur. “You would do the same for me.”

Arthur rests his head back against the wood. “Doesn’t change the fact that I’m grateful and in your debt.”

“Why don’t you just stay alive, cowboy.”

The rancher greets them with crossed arms and a frown as Charles pulls the wagon up to the front of the house.

“What’s wrong with your friend, anyway?” he asks.

Charles hops down and circles around to the back to help Arthur out of the wagon. “Bronchitis.”

Arthur gives the man a weak salute. “Nice to meet you too,” he says with a cheeky smirk, and Charles barely resists rolling his eyes.

“You boys follow me,” the rancher says, ignoring Arthur’s remark. “My name’s Henry. The ranch isn’t much, but it’s home.”

“I’m Charles, and this is Arthur,” Charles says, following him into the house. It’s a bit threadbare and plain, but Charles can see the care that goes into maintaining this home, and he wonders about the lives lived within these walls.

“One of my ranch hands just quit, so I hope you’re ready to work,” Henry says, and though his words are stern, there’s a smile on his face. The room he leads them to is on the first floor, with big windows and a large bed. Charles helps Arthur settle on the bed.

“Charles here is the hardest worker of anyone I know,” Arthur says.

“I can tell,” Henry replies, and Charles can feel his gaze on him as he helps Arthur out of his boots and into a reclined position on the bed. “I’m making dinner tonight if you two are interested. I’m so used to cooking for four that I always have extra.”

Charles doubts the empty house tells a happy story, but he doesn’t push it. “Thank you,” Charles replies, and the bedroom door clicks shut as Henry leaves them alone.

“How are you feeling?” Charles asks as he sits on the end of the bed, at Arthur’s socked feet.

“Like someone dragged me through the mud behind their horse,” he replies. “And I swallowed a buncha rocks in the process.”

Charles squeezes Arthur’s shin gently. “For the next few days, you can rest. Get your strength back.”

Charles spends the week helping Henry do repairs around the ranch as well as checking up on Arthur as much as he possibly can. It was a good decision, bringing Arthur here. Sunlight filters through the large windows in the bedroom and Charles often props them open in the daytime to let in the fresh air. Henry seems invested in Arthur’s health in a way Charles didn’t expect and offers them food every evening. Charles is endlessly grateful for the man’s generosity.

Arthur’s fever gets worse on day three of their stay at the ranch, and Charles spends most of the day changing out the wet rag he places on Arthur’s forehead in an effort to get his temperature down. Charles knows what happens when a fever sticks around for too long, and he can’t help the clawing worry that fills him. He grasps Arthur’s hand that evening, big and warm and weak, and gazes into his unconscious face.

There is so much he wants to tell him, but the words stick on his tongue. Arthur is the reason Charles is no longer alone. He helped Charles learn to trust again and showed Charles more humanity than he ever expected to find in a gang of outlaws, has been the best friend Charles has ever had, and the thought of losing him is more frightening than Charles could ever imagine.

Charles thinks about how alone he would be if Arthur were gone. Charles closes his eyes until the only thing in his mind is the feel of Arthur’s palm, warm in his own.

Arthur’s fever breaks late that night. From where Charles is curled up next to him on the bed, he can hear the change in Arthur’s breathing, and when he places a hand on Arthur’s forehead, the terrible heat is gone.

Arthur wakes with the morning sun.

“Charles?”

“I’m here.” Charles helps him sit up and hands him a glass of water. His eyes are clearer than they’ve been in days, and his forehead is no longer burning to the touch. “How are you feeling?”

Arthur considers his question. “Weak and sore, but better. Much better.”

As the days pass, Arthur gets stronger and stronger. His breathing clears up, his temperature evens out, and he can stand for longer periods of time unaided. He’s smiling and laughing again, and Charles has never been happier to hear Arthur tell his dumb jokes.

The vice-like hold on Charles’ heart eases at the thought that Arthur might pull out of this sickness as healthy as he had been before. When Arthur had first started coughing, Charles expected the worst. He’d expected the doctor to listen to Arthur’s lungs and give him a time limit.

But here Arthur is, standing on the front porch of the ranch house and watching as Charles lifts a fencepost into place in the front yard.

“Looks a little crooked to me,” Arthur says with a grin.

“You’re the one who’s crooked, old man,” Charles replies, and he hammers the post into the ground without looking back to see the expression that goes with Arthur’s offended scoff. He keeps his back to Arthur to hide his smile.

With Arthur feeling better, he and Charles join Henry at the dinner table for the first time since staying at the ranch. Henry looks pleased to see them as he dishes hot food onto both of their plates. “Glad you’re feeling so much better,” Henry says to Arthur. “I was worried you would die in that bedroom. I have enough problems without having some ruffian haunting this place.”

Arthur coughs on the mouthful of greens he had just shoveled into his mouth. “Well, glad to have saved you the trouble,” Arthur replies with a grin twisting his lips.

The sun is low in the sky and it casts its orange light across the table, turning their faces warm and golden in the growing evening as they share a meal, two outlaws and an unlikely ally.

“Where are you two headed after this?” Henry asks, genuinely curious.

“We’re trying to make a life for ourselves on the Canadian border,” Charles replies. “Find some land, live a life of peace.”

Henry doesn’t ask where they come from. Charles knows the man has an idea of what their lives were like before, and Charles is grateful that Henry doesn’t ask.

“I have a cousin that lives out there,” Henry says. “I haven’t spoken to him in a while, but I’m sure I could send a letter ahead of you. He’s a good man. Would probably be happy to help some friends of mine find their way.”

“That’s mighty kind of you,” Arthur says.

“Charles here has helped get more done around this farm than I’ve done by myself in weeks. I know good, hardworking men when I see them.” Henry shakes his head. “Honestly, I’m not looking forward to the day the two of you leave. You’ve been the best guests a lonely man could hope for.”

Charles feels for this man. Living a life alone is not easy, and though the house he lives in is nice and his ranch sustains him, companionship is something every person should be able to find should they desire it. Charles’ life with Arthur is so much richer than his life before joining the gang. Charles wonders what happened to the family pictured in the photograph that’s sitting on the mantle, why they’re not with Henry.

Charles helps Henry paint his barn a deep grey. Henry bought the paint months ago and never got around to using it. Charles relishes the feel of covering up the worn wood with the thick pigment and turning it into something new. The work feels good, and Charles’ heart tugs at the thought of doing this work on a place of their own, with a feeling of happiness and pride to go along with the feeling of a job well done.

Arthur comes out to watch him, leaning against the fence that contains the handful of horses Henry keeps on the farm. One of the more curious mares comes and lips at Arthur’s shirtsleeve, which makes him laugh and pet her spotted nose.

“If you continue like this, Henry might steal you from me,” Arthur says to Charles, grin in his voice.

“Henry treats me well. I might stay,” Charles replies from his spot on the ladder and watches Arthur press a hand to his chest in response.

“You wound me, Mister Smith. What does a man have to do to keep you around?”

Charles thinks, _nothing at all. You have my heart already._ Even just in his head, the words are powerful. Charles knows they’re true, but it’s the first time he’s even truly admitted it to himself. Arthur has his heart.

“Stay healthy, you fool, and I’ll think about it,” is what Charles says out loud.

Arthur smiles at him, and Charles thinks it’s enough.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Charles face the last stretch of their journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What better way to celebrate my birthday than post a chapter of this fanfic?

They leave after a week and a half at Henry’s ranch. Before they step out into the early morning, Henry hands them a small satchel of dry goods and wrapped meat to make the next week of their journey easier, and he makes them promise to write him when they find a place of their own. Charles knows he earned their room and board through the work he did while at the ranch, but he leaves Henry with a handful of salves he knows Henry will find useful and a letter expressing their thanks.

The morning is crisp as they tack up Penny and Taima and hit the road again. Charles relishes the freedom of horseback, and he can tell by the way Arthur tips his face up into breeze that he feels the same way. They turn northward, and the road greets them like old friends, opening to them with its colors and its vastness. Charles feels small again, and it’s a welcome feeling.

They don’t talk much, instead, enjoying the morning air and the silence of the world around them.

Around midday, when the sun is warm but pleasant, Arthur scratches his chin and sighs. “I keep thinking about what would have happened, had we not left the gang. About being sick.”

Charles sighs. He was thinking the same thing. “They barely let you rest after getting kidnapped by the O’Driscolls. Can’t imagine Dutch would have given you time off for sickness.”

Before, Arthur would have argued that everyone had to pull their weight, but now he remains silent.

After almost losing Arthur to sickness, Charles feels himself watching Arthur more and more. It’s like Arthur is the sun, and Charles, a flower turning towards the light that he needs to survive. The tug in his gut has turned painful, and Charles wonders when the last time he felt this about someone was. He can’t ever remember this level of focus, of worry that somehow, everything will turn to shit and they will lose each other. Dutch is far away, but neither of them knows what he’s up to, and it’s the not knowing that scares Charles, little that he wants to admit Dutch still has any power over him.

Arthur hasn’t talked about anyone from the gang in a long time, and Charles wonders what he’s thinking. He knows Arthur misses them—Charles can feel their absence, and he was only with them for a few months. Arthur had been with some of those people for the majority of his life, and that’s not something you leave behind so easily.

He wonders if any of them think Charles turned Arthur away from the gang. The thought sits strangely with him—on one hand, it does Arthur little credit, but on the other, there’s a heat that fills him thinking that others might recognize that Arthur chose _him_.

September greets them as they cross the border into Washington. The land grows rockier, and they have to slow their pace or they risk their horses laming themselves on the uneven land. They pass by a crystalline lake, and Charles finds himself awestruck by the way the sun glints on its blue surface. Pine trees cradle the edge of the lake across from them, and Charles’ eyes catch on a hawk that wheels overhead.

“You want to pause here a while?” Arthur asks. He’s looking at Charles, and there’s a small smile on his mouth. “It’s a lovely spot. Maybe we can fish.”

“I’d like that.”

They leave their horses untethered by the edge of the water and stand on the rocky shore. The air is cool and plays with Charles’ hair. He turns his chin up into the breeze and closes his eyes.

Charles hears Arthur rustling beside him, and he assumes Arthur is digging around in his satchel.

“Charles, can I…” He trails off and Charles opens his eyes to see him sheepishly holding the handheld camera given to him by the author who wanted Arthur to chase after gunslingers.

“What?” Charles asks.

Arthur clears his throat, clearly embarrassed. “Can I take a picture of you? I just thought, well, you look so natural standing at the edge of this lake, and—” He frowns. “It was a stupid suggestion, forget I asked.”

Charles catches his wrist before he can shove the camera back in his bag. “It’s not stupid. You can take a picture of me if you want.”

Arthur’s mouth opens in surprise and he stares at Charles for a few silent moments in which Charles feels his face heat at the scrutiny.

“Alright then,” Arthur finally says, and then gestures loosely at him with the hand not holding the camera. “Do what you were doing before I bothered you.”

Charles turns his face back out towards the water and closes his eyes. He can feel Arthur’s gaze on him, studious as he tries to get a good angle for a photo, and Charles feels giddy under this attention. Arthur sees something in him worth capturing.

The camera clicks, and Charles opens his eyes to see Arthur still looking at him, camera lowered out of his line of sight, his expression almost dazed. Charles meets his gaze, and electricity zips between them. Charles could close this gap between them, and somehow, he knows that Arthur would not push him away.

“Your pictures any good?” Charles asks, and the moment breaks like a deer startling from a twig snapped underfoot.

Arthur blinks, shaking out of his daze and putting the camera back in his satchel. “I can’t say. I don’t know much about photography, and I haven’t developed any of them. Haven’t had the time.”

Charles hopes the life they’re headed towards allows time for the little things like that. He wants Arthur to be able to develop his pictures and spend time on his sketches and not feel like he’s wasting time.

Arthur eventually pulls out his fishing rod and casts out into the lake, humming idly as he waits for a bite. Charles isn’t much of a fisherman, so he takes the arrows he’s been whittling and sits on the bank near Arthur, just far enough away from him that he doesn’t get wet, but close enough that his humming is clear.

“We should settle down by a lake like this,” Arthur says after a few long, quiet moments. “It’s beautiful.”

Charles looks up from his whittling to see Arthur staring wistfully across the water, his hands motionless on the fishing rod.

“I’d like that,” Charles says. He can imagine a life here, overlooking this sparkling water every morning in a pocket of the world that is entirely their own.

Feeling closer than ever to the end of their journey, Charles and Arthur decide to stay on the shore of the lake that night, and with a fire crackling in the camp they set up, Arthur digs around in his saddlebag and pulls out a bottle of a brown liquid that glistens in the firelight.

“Care to drink this with me, Charles?” he says, sitting down next to Charles on a fallen tree. Its bark is rough under them, but sitting here is a break on Charles’ aching knees.

“Sure.”

Arthur uses his knife to pry the cork out of the bottle and offers the first pull to Charles. It’s a smoky whiskey that burns down his throat, but it sits warmly in his stomach, and it’s been so long since Charles has had anything to drink that it’s a pleasant sensation. For this night, it is easy to imagine all their worries are gone.

They drink until the edges of Charles’ world are blurred and he’s warm to the tips of his fingers. Arthur’s shoulder is pressed to his, and Charles doesn’t dare pull away, couldn’t if he tried. The night is alive around them, and the stars are bright, and Charles would rather be nowhere else at this moment. He would have no one with him but Arthur, who has a smile on his mouth as he drunkenly tells Charles about the French artist he met in Saint Denis.

“He was a menace and everyone hated him, but he was probably the most hilarious person I’ve ever met,” he says, shaking his head. “Nearly got myself killed helping him get out of Saint Denis.”

“Why’d you help him?” Charles asks. He wonders that about half the people Arthur meets, but then Arthur is the kind of man to offer help without questioning it, regardless of the absurdity of the situation. It’s a strange trait for an outlaw like Arthur, but Charles has never doubted the depth of Arthur’s honor since getting to know him.

“I suppose I was curious to see what he’d say next. Like watching a train wreck, I’d reckon.” Arthur takes a long swig of the whiskey and hands it to Charles. “The last time I saw him, he was wearing a dress and makeup and kissed me on the mouth to hide from some people he thought he knew.”

Charles coughs on his mouthful of whiskey. He’s too drunk for this. Too drunk to imagine Arthur, surprised as a man plants a kiss on his mouth. Too drunk to avoid the weird spark of jealousy he feels for this man he doesn’t know. This horrible French artist that knows the feeling of Arthur’s lips, a gift not given to him but stolen.

“Easy there,” Arthur says, and his hand lands on Charles’ back.

Charles coughs a few more times and then shakes his head. His eyes are watering. “Sorry.”

Arthur’s hand lingers longer than necessary, and then it drops back to his lap. “Don’t worry. I was surprised too, though I must say, he wasn’t a bad kisser.”

Charles laughs, warmth high in his cheeks, and can’t help but wonder. Arthur’s always been a hard one to read, but is this a clue? “You meet the strangest people.”

“They take one look at me and decide I’m worth bothering. They can tell I’m gullible.”

Charles presses into the contact of their shoulders for a moment. He knows that if he tells Arthur what these people see is a man with a good heart, Arthur will pull into himself in discomfort. Charles doesn’t want to push it, not tonight.

“You gonna share that whiskey?” Arthur asks, and Charles hands him the bottle.

Charles revels in the press of their shoulders as the quiet night settles around them.

Arthur wakes in the morning feeling the lingering bite of whiskey on his tongue, and there is an ache in his head that speaks of overindulgence. It’s nothing chugging some water won’t help, but it’s enough to be annoying. The morning sun is bright on the water, and when Arthur turns his head, he finds Charles tending to the horses by the edge of the lake, just far enough away that whatever he’s murmuring to Penny is inaudible. Arthur watches him scratch Penny’s nose, a fond smile on his face, and Arthur feels a surge of affection. This man with hands capable of killing, so gentle and caring.

Arthur struggles to a sitting position and finds his canteen. The water is fresh, which tells him that Charles boiled water and filled his canteen while Arthur was asleep. He drinks greedily and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Arthur starts packing camp up, and Charles joins him a little while after that. With the horses ready and their camp nothing but a small pile of ash, Charles and Arthur set off again.

Arthur has never really thrown his lot in with fate, but he can’t help but feel like something in the cosmos has aligned to allow him this—the beautiful pines that they travel through, the mountains in the distance that overlook them, protecting, the blue sky where an eagle circles. Charles.

For a few days, Arthur had been sure that sickness was going to pull him under. Now, with his lungs clear and his body strong, he has to wonder if some powerful force altered his path. On the night he was sure he was going to die, shivering and achy and lost to the world, he had felt a hand in his. He knows his brain was hot enough that he wasn’t in touch with reality and so he’s not sure if the warm palm had been in his mind or not, but he can’t help but feel that touch pulled him back from the brink.

Arthur has never believed in fate, but he knows luck and second chances, and he’s planning to use his second chance to the fullest.

West of the mountains, the land is lush, and they find themselves in a cedar forest with trees that tower over them, harboring them from the bright sun. The wildlife is abundant, which means easy hunting, and though Washington was not exactly a part of Arthur’s dreams of the west, he can feel himself falling for this land, with its deep green forests and gentle weather.

Arthur pulls out his journal more often, sketching the wildlife and the trees that are new to him. On one misty morning, just as they are guiding their horses out of a line of trees and into a sprawling meadow, they spot an elk. Both men freeze and watch its slow progress across the land. It’s a huge thing, fourteen points to its antlers, and its breath paints thick clouds of fog in the cold morning air. It hasn’t noticed them, and Charles and Arthur share an unspoken agreement to keep it that way. They wait in the last bit of cover the forest provides until the creature passes. That evening, Arthur sketches its likeness onto a page of his journal, and he’s not sure he captured its grace and elegance.

Arthur has spent his whole adult life drawing the things that intrigue him—animals, plants, landscapes, people. There’s something about capturing a figure on paper that allows him to show his appreciation in a way he could never manage with words.

Arthur has never drawn Charles. His fingers itch to do so, but part of him worries that he’ll fail, that the image will be a pale comparison to the wonderful curves of Charles’ face. He also worries that by drawing Charles, he’ll expose his heart. That the lines will reveal his deep feelings for Charles, growing stronger by the day. Somehow, putting it to paper will make it unavoidable.

They reach a town that’s barely more than a single street of buildings made of simple, unpainted wood. They pick up some supplies in the general store and eat a hot meal in the tiny saloon. The patrons eye them, so obviously travelers they are, but there’s no hostility in their looks. Arthur asks the bartender about Peterstown, the town near the border of Canada that he has heard about, and the bartender nods and tells him it’s a three days’ ride on horseback from this town.

“It’s a nice place. Much bigger than this, but that’s not saying much,” the bartender says with a grin, and Arthur thanks him before heading back to where Charles is sitting at a table in the corner.

“We haven’t really discussed what we’re planning to do once we get to Peterstown,” Arthur says. “I think we both agree we want a quiet house away from civilization, but we might have to build it ourselves.”

Charles’ face is warm and relaxed in the afternoon light coming through the big windows. “I figured that’d be the case.”

“You ever built a house?” Arthur asks.

Charles shakes his head. “I haven’t, but I’m sure someone in Peterstown has.”

The last three days of their journey, Arthur feels almost wistful. He knows they have hard work ahead of them when they reach their destination, but it doesn’t ease the feeling that this long journey he’s shared with Charles is coming to a close. He feels closer to Charles than he ever has before, and he has the road to thank for that. He isn’t sure how things will change after this, and it’s the not-knowing that knots Arthur’s stomach.

For the first time in weeks, Arthur allows himself to miss Hosea’s advice, the calm way he sets Arthur straight when he’s spiraling, words matter-of-fact and simple. Hosea, who made fun of Arthur plenty, but never when it mattered. Arthur wonders what he would say about Arthur’s current situation.

These thoughts open a floodgate in Arthur’s mind, and when Charles and Arthur leave the tiny town behind them, images of the gang sit behind his eyes. With a longing so fierce it nearly bowls him over, Arthur thinks about those he left behind, about his mismatched family that fell victim to the silver-coated words of a man who never had their best interests at heart.

“Arthur, you alright?”

Arthur realizes he’s white-knuckling the saddle horn and eases his grip. He’s sure the tension in his shoulders is easily visible to Charles, and he tries to loosen his posture. “Sorry, Charles. Just got a little caught in my thoughts.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Arthur almost turns him down, but Charles wouldn’t judge him, not for this. “I miss ‘em, that’s all.”

“The gang?”

Arthur drags a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah. Sorta wish we could have dragged some of them out here with us, but I know it’s a stupid thought.”

“They’re your family,” Charles says. “It’s not stupid.”

Arthur looks up at Charles, catches his gaze and holds it. “You’re my family too, Charles, don’t forget that. You’re the reason I ain’t Dutch’s shadow no more. Heck, you’re the reason I didn’t _die_ as Dutch’s shadow.”

Charles’ expression softens, and he reaches his hand into the space between their horses to squeeze Arthur’s shoulder. “Every day I’m grateful you came with me,” Charles says. “That you’re able to experience a slice of the life you deserve.”

“You really know how to warm an old cowboy’s heart,” Arthur says, voice thick.

“As long as that old cowboy is you,” Charles says, and Arthur longs to pull him into a hug. Instead, he smiles at him, and he hopes Charles can see at least a sliver of the sentiment clattering in his chest.

Finally, it seems like autumn has the land entirely in its clutches. The leaves begin to turn, brilliant in their yellows and gold and reds. Arthur wishes he had paint so he could capture the colors on the pages of his journal. The weather is beginning to cool, and Arthur is glad they are near the end of their journey. Winter is not pleasant on the road.

Though they are only a two-hour ride from Peterstown, the night is dark and the moon only a sliver in the sky, leaving the darkness around them thick and nearly impenetrable. Arthur gets a fire going and Charles moves off into the thicket of trees off to their right to find more kindling.

The slice of the moon glints off a body of water off to Arthur’s left, but in this darkness, it’s very hard to make out how big the lake is. Their surroundings will reveal themselves in the morning, and until then, keeping to a small radius is their best bet. The fire barely penetrates the gloom.

It takes a while for Arthur to realize that Charles has been gone too long. He frowns and turns in the direction that Charles disappeared, but the edge of the trees is dark and unmoving, swallowing the light of the lantern Charles took with him. Unease settles in Arthur’s gut.

“Charles?” he calls.

There is no answer, and Arthur takes a deep breath before leaving the circle of the fire and stepping into the line of trees. Twigs crack under his boots and the pines dwarf him. Moonlight barely cuts through their thick branches. An owl calls and Arthur feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle.

“Charles! You out there?” He moves deeper into the trees. He can’t imagine Charles got far. He was on foot and he was only looking for kindling. No reason for him to have disappeared. Arthur can’t see the glow of his lantern anywhere. He pushes a branch out of the way and moves further into the trees.

“Charles, goddammit, where the hell are you?”

“Over here.”

Arthur nearly stumbles as he turns towards Charles’ voice, a few meters away. Arthur finds him sitting on the ground, one leg extended in front of him, his lantern extinguished by his feet.

“What happened?” Arthur asks as he approaches.

Charles grimaces. “Stepped in a rabbit hole and turned my ankle. I should have been paying closer attention. I’m glad you came looking—I was beginning to worry I’d have to crawl back.”

Arthur crouches next to him, sets the lantern back upright and lights it again. It casts a flickering glow over Charles’ frustrated face.

“Can I look?” Arthur asks him.

Charles leans back on his hands and nods.

Arthur shuffles forward and settles on his knees in the dry pine needles. Charles is wearing his calf-height boots, but the leather is soft from use which means he can feel Charles’ ankle through them. He checks it as gently as he can, but Charles still hisses when Arthur’s fingers hit a hotspot.

“Sorry,” he says, patting Charles’ shin apologetically. “Doesn’t feel broken. You hear a pop when you turned it?”

Charles shakes his head. “At most, I sprained it.” His hair is a bit tousled from his stumble, and the lantern catches on his features, highlights the way he’s leaned back to allow Arthur access to his ankle.

Arthur’s mouth goes dry. Their gazes catch and hold, and heat flares in Arthur’s stomach. He _wants._

He eases Charles’ foot back to the forest floor. “Let’s get back to the campfire,” he says, and he hates the roughness of his voice, hopes Charles can’t hear it. “Gimme your arm.”

Arthur helps haul Charles to his feet. Charles uses a tree for balance while Arthur grabs the lantern and the pile of kindling that Charles dropped when he fell. He hands the lantern to Charles and loops his arm back over his shoulders.

Together, they make their slow way back to the campfire. It’s awkward, and Charles is obviously in pain despite keeping all weight off his foot, but they make it, and Arthur eases Charles down onto his bedroll.

Arthur adds a little of the kindling into the fire and sits down on his own bedroll. “Shoulda known we wouldn’t make it all the way without another setback,” he says with a grin. “That’d be too easy.”

Charles laughs. “I was beginning to think our luck would hold. Foolish of me.”

“For once fate is just giving you the privilege of being the damsel in distress, instead of me,” Arthur replies.

“I turn my ankle and suddenly I’m a damsel?”

“If I’m half-carrying you back to camp, yes.”

Charles reaches out and shoves him lightly on the shoulder, smile fighting through the mock annoyance on his face. “How did I end up traveling with a man with such a big ego?”

Arthur ducks back with a snort. “I’m just trying to gain back some of my dignity. How many times have you saved my life now?” He thinks about the dirt under the desperate kick of his boots as the bounty hunter choked the life out of him. How the sun had narrowed in his vision, how Charles’ voice had sounded like an angel’s there to guide him to the afterlife, and then, life flooding back into his throat and Charles’ hands on him, steadying.

“If you’re expecting a tally of some sort, you’re gonna be disappointed,” Charles says.

Arthur shakes his head with a chuckle and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He opens it, sticks one between his lips, and holds the open pack to Charles. Charles takes a cigarette and the two share a smoke in the dark night. They are so close to their destination, and despite his fear and the ache of missing the gang, he’s full of affection for the man next to him, and the thought of sharing a peaceful life with him is enough to lighten the feeling in his chest. Their happy ending is so close he can taste it on his tongue with the bite of cigarette smoke.

When Arthur wakes the next morning, light crests over the line of mountains to their east, and Arthur realizes just how beautiful the area they find themselves in is. They are close to a lake, crystalline and shimmering, cradled by a forest of brilliant hues. It’s quiet too, and Arthur comes to the realization slowly.

“Charles,” he says, and Charles looks over at him from where he had been staring off into the forest.

“Good morning, Arthur.”

“What if we,” he begins, voice rough from sleep. “What if we built a house here?”

Charles looks out over the water, and his face splits into a beautiful smile. “I’d like that.”

Arthur’s heart is beating wildly in his chest as he imagines waking up every morning to the sparkling water and the clear, crisp air. Hunting in these woods as the sunlight tumbles down the mountains and the eagles circle overhead. Arthur’s soul resonates with this place.

When they pack up their camp to leave, Arthur has to do most of the work. Charles tries at first, but his hiss of pain when he accidentally puts weight on his ankle makes Arthur force him to sit, under threat of serious scolding. Charles rolls his eyes, but he sits on a tree stump and watches Arthur finish packing up camp.

“I suppose we should inquire in town and make sure this land isn’t owned by anyone,” Arthur says as he tightens Penny’s saddle strap. “And then we can start figuring out how one goes about getting a house built.”

Charles climbs into Taima’s saddle carefully. “Sounds like a plan.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A house, a dance, and a telegram.

Peterstown is a little bigger than Valentine, and because its industry lies in mining, most of its citizens are rougher around the edges than the people of Valentine. But there are more than just miners here—it’s a bustling little town with what seems to be business of all kinds, and Arthur finds he likes it.

“I’m going to go talk to the folks at the town hall,” Arthur says. “You want to explore a little, see what there is to offer?” With Charles’ ankle still injured, he’ll have to stay on horseback, but the streets are wide enough that it’s not an issue.

“Sure. I’ll meet you at the general store.”

The town hall building is small, and when Arthur steps inside, the front room is empty save for the woman sitting behind the reception desk. “Can I help you?” she asks.

“Who might I ask about some land outside of town?”

She smiles at him. “You can ask me.”

He steps forward towards her desk. “There’s a lake about a two-hour ride south. I want to make sure no one owns the land around it before we start building on it.”

She unfolds a small map of Peterstown and its surrounding areas. She points to a marking on the map. “This lake?”

Arthur squints as she turns the map around to face him. “Yeah, that’s the one.”

“No one owns it right now, sir, but I’d hurry up and snag it if I were you. The bank has been looking to snatch up that land so they can sell it.”

“Thanks for your help, miss,” Arthur says.

“Welcome to Peterstown, sir,” she says with a small wave as he heads back out onto the street. He finds Charles sitting on the steps of the general store, Taima hitched near him.

“Good news,” he says as Charles looks up at him. “That land is ours if we want it.”

Charles smiles, a brilliant flash of white on his face. “I talked to the general store clerk, and he told me the lumber yard will sell us everything we need. They can also put us in touch with men who can help us build it. Apparently, building a house is easier than ever these days, or so he told me.”

“Well, Charles, are you ready to start the long journey of becoming a homeowner?”

“I’ve been ready.”

They set up a more permanent camp on the edge of the lake, close to where they have decided the house will sit. They hire four men from Peterstown, one of whom works with them to develop blueprints for a house that suits their needs. The man’s name is Jamison, and he seems eager to get started, and Charles finds he likes him already. The blueprints they come up with have three bedrooms, a large living space, and a spacious kitchen that overlooks the lake. A small stable for their horses sits just off the house. All of this is new, but exciting in a way that grips both of them. 

They break ground almost immediately, and though Charles doesn’t know much about building, he follows directions well enough, and Jamison is happy to have their help. Charles can’t put much weight on his ankle yet, but he can measure and cut, and so for the first few days while his ankle is healing, that’s what he does. Arthur helps with hauling boards and holding them there as someone else hammers them into place. It’s tough but honest work, and Charles can tell by the ease of Arthur’s features that he doesn’t mind it one bit. Working beside Arthur like this is gratifying, and though Charles ends each day with an ache in his bones that he’s not used to, it’s a good ache that he knows he shares with Arthur.

In front of their very eyes, a structure begins to take shape. The days grow shorter and colder, and they must halt their work earlier each day as the sun retreats behind the horizon sooner. They make trips back and forth to Peterstown for supplies, and the trips become something of a routine, one that they both look forward to.

They’re on one of their trips into Peterstown for supplies when a man stops them off the main street.

“You two!” he calls, running up to them with his breath puffing hot in the cold air. “You wouldn’t happen to be Arthur and Charles, would you?”

Charles tenses and prepares to bolt, before realizing who this man is. “Are you related to Henry?”

The man is younger and rounder than Henry, but he has the same smile. “That’s me. Name’s Phillip. Henry told me you two are trying to make a life for yourselves out here. Is there anything I can do to help?” He eyes the back of their wagon, full of building supplies. “Looks like you’ve already started.”

“I can’t think of anything we need right now,” Arthur replies. “But it’s good to have a friend in town.”

Phillip tips his hat. “Sure thing. My family and I live out north, past the river. If you ever need anything, please let me know. Henry is a good judge of character, and he seems to like the two of you, and that’s enough for me.”

“Thank you, mister. You take care,” Arthur replies.

Phillip gives them one last friendly nod and continues into the heart of town.

“Nice feller,” Arthur replies. “This whole town is nice.”

“You made the right call with this place,” Charles replies. “We’ve always attracted looks, but I can’t say I’ve noticed them here.”

“You’re right,” Arthur replies. Their wagon rumbles down the road out of town. “Maybe fate was kind to us this time.”

Charles doesn’t agree out loud, but it’s beginning to feel like it.

Charles' ankle heals, and as the days grow shorter, the empty frame of a house gets closer and closer to something resembling a home. Fall sinks gradually into the cold embrace of winter, and Charles and Arthur move their camp into the unfinished house, its walls just enough to keep the cold from biting at them with its full ferocity. It’s a step up from camping on the ground, and Charles can’t help but feel that even unfinished, the house is their safe harbor after a long time on a stormy sea.

On the first snow of the year, Arthur hammers the last shingle into place and the house is complete.

Jamison and his crew pack up their supplies, and Jamison wishes them the best of luck. The work crew leaves, and then it is just the two of them and their house sitting next to the lake like it has always been there, waiting for them. They step inside together.

It’s more quaint than not, but four walls are more than either of them have ever had to their name, and these walls are solid and clean, sure to protect them from any number of dangers. Charles runs a hand along the wood panels and gazes out the large window at the way the sunset is staining the lake a beautiful red.

Their furniture is very sparse, only what they’ve brought in since the roof has been up, and that won’t change until they go into town and order more, but it will do for now. Arthur moves past him into the living room and crouches down to get a fire going in the fireplace. Charles lights the lanterns in the living room and smiles as accomplishment and an overwhelming sense of relief wash over him. They’re here and they’re _alive._ An honest life is in their grasp.

Charles’ few belongings don’t even begin to fill the room he chose as his own—even the concept of having a room of his own sits strangely in Charles’ mind, but it’s a good kind of strange, one that matches the strangeness of being here with Arthur, the strangeness that has been with him since Arthur left with him that moonlit night.

Charles finds Arthur sitting in one of the chairs by the fire, stripped of his boots and jacket. Charles joins him.

“Can you believe it?” Arthur asks.

“I’m certainly having trouble,” Charles replies. “But it’ll sink in eventually.”

“This is your doing, you know,” Arthur says, voice low. “You’re the reason we’re here.”

Charles shakes his head. “Wouldn’t have happened without you.”

Arthur sighs. “Well, I’m glad I wasn’t too thick-headed not to take your offer, though I did try as hard as I could to end this adventure, didn’t I?”

“We made it, and that’s what matters,” Charles replies. “Your near-death is just part of the story, now.”

Arthur smiles. “If you say so.”

Their first few days in the house are strange. They are two men used to living on the road, living rough, and even with a roof over their heads, the feeling of being exposed is a hard one to shake.

They hunt, learn to cook in their kitchen, try their hand at fishing on the lake, and continue to make their house a home. It’s different, but it’s peaceful. Winter keeps them inside in the evenings, but the living room is comfortable, and the open land easily visible through the large windows keeps them from feeling penned in.

They’re sitting on the front porch one afternoon, the sun warming them just enough that it’s pleasant, when Arthur hums and looks up from whatever he was sketching in his journal.

“I’d like John, Abigail, and Jack to visit us here. Maybe stay for a season,” Arthur says. “Same with the others.”

“I’d like that, too,” Charles replies. Charles likes being on his own, but he doesn’t like being lonely, and the gang had slowly wedged its way into the holes in Charles’ heart. The thought of sharing his home with them is a pleasant one. If he could have singlehandedly stolen all of them from Dutch’s clutches at the same time, he would have, and though Arthur was the priority and the most at risk, Charles doesn’t for one moment wish to deny any of the others the same freedom they have found.

Arthur thumbs the edge of his journal nervously. He’s not wearing his hat, so the planes of his face are still visible even as he ducks his head. Charles has noticed that his hat has become a less common crutch now that they’re here alone, safe. “I keep expecting Sadie to send an update. It would be nice to know where everyone is, _how_ everyone is.”

Charles remains silent. What can he say? Arthur won’t want to hear hollow platitudes, and Charles doesn’t have much else. The gang was in a tight spot when they left, and though Charles thinks their leaving was an important catalyst to others realizing they could also be free, Charles knows that not everyone in the gang would take that chance, and they are the ones who could still be in danger. It’s been a long time since they talked to Sadie, and anything could have happened since then.

“I guess the only thing to do is wait and hope,” Arthur eventually adds, sighing and closing his journal. “I trust Sadie to do what needs to be done, more than anyone else back there.”

They stock up before the worst of the winter hits, making sure their firewood is piled high and their food is plentiful. There are no terrible snowstorms like they experienced in Colter, but the winter still bites, and so they only venture out when they need to.

Charles wakes one morning to find the weather unseasonably warm, so he decides to make a run into town to pick up a few things. Arthur hasn’t emerged from his room when Charles heads off, so he leaves him a note in the kitchen to let him know where he went.

Taima snorts happily when he climbs on her back, and he rubs her affectionately at the edge of her mane. Even in winter, this land is beautiful. There are enough pine trees to keep the landscape more green than brown, and the lakes are even more crystalline with the weak winter sun shining down on them.

Peterstown is bustling even in the cold as Charles makes his way to the general store. There he picks up a number of things, including coffee, which they were running low on. Cigarettes. Some canned fruit. They still have just enough money left over from what they had when they left the gang, but that won’t last forever, and Charles is already thinking about the kinds of things they can do to make money. Selling the pelts of the animals they hunt for food will be a start, but probably not enough. 

Charles finishes his purchases, and when he steps out onto the main street, his eyes catch on the post office. Arthur is usually the one that checks the post office for any mail, but he hasn’t been to town in a while, and Charles figures he might as well, while he’s here.

The building is quiet when he steps inside, and the man on duty barely looks up at him. “Can I help you?”

“Any mail for a Tacitus Kilgore?”

The man turns away from him without speaking and inspects the mailboxes, fingers dancing over the bundles of letters there. “I’m not seeing anything.”

“Uh. Check for Arthur Morgan and Charles Smith too.”

“Got one here for Charles,” he says, plucking the letter from the shelf and turning. “This here’s a telegram. Don’t know why someone didn’t bring it out to you.” He shrugs. “Only came in yesterday evening, so not much time lost.” He hands it to Charles, who’s already frowning as he takes it.

It’s from Sadie. He turns and leaves the post office, finding a bench outside so he can sit and read.

_Dutch held by Pinkertons in Colter. John and family safe. Hosea Javier and I working on getting Dutch out. Stay there._

Charles closes his eyes. There are a number of questions rattling around inside his head: _where are the others? Where are they holding Dutch? How did Dutch allow himself to get captured?_

Dread eats at him. Arthur won’t want to let them fight this fight without him. He’ll want to be a part of it, despite Sadie’s words. What can Charles do to ensure that Arthur doesn’t bolt to help rescue Dutch? Surely Sadie must know that by telling them, she has put the nail in the coffin. They've been living under their new roof for a month, and Charles fears a month will be all they get. 

Charles knows Sadie sent the telegram to him on purpose, but Charles isn't sure even he can keep Arthur away. 

Charles spends little longer on that bench, staring down at the yellow paper of the telegram and feeling his grasp on their newly peaceful life slipping from his fingers like silk.

He finishes up his errands in town and mounts Taima. The gentle breeze that pushes over the land and the bright of the sky on his trip home mock him. He wishes he could tear this telegram to pieces and toss the fragments into the lake so that the fish could consume their troubles.

Stupid Dutch and his stupid ambition, throwing everyone around him into the line of fire and blaming them for not doing enough.

When Charles makes it back to the house, the sun is nearing the edge of the horizon. He takes his saddle off of Taima and goes through her evening care and trudges inside with his purchases for the day held over his shoulder in a burlap bag. The telegram burns hot in his shirt pocket.

He’s hit with the smell of cooking when he steps through the front door.

Arthur greets him from the kitchen. “Hey there, Charles. I hope you’re hungry.”

There’s music playing, and Charles looks around the room to find the source. There, on one of the side tables in the living room, sits a phonograph, and from it comes a gentle melody. It’s nothing like the opera Dutch would blast in camp, and Charles feels himself smiling. “What’s all this?”

Arthur shrugs as he stirs a pot on the stove. “I bought that thing a while back when I saw it in the shop. I forgot about it until earlier today, and then I thought why not make an evening of it?”

Charles moves into the kitchen. “What’re you cooking?”

Arthur tries to angle his body so Charles can’t peer down into the pot. “Hey, now! Go sit and wait. It’s almost done.”

Charles laughs at Arthur’s antics and retreats from the kitchen. “I didn’t know you cooked,” he says as he takes a seat at the table.

“You’ve seen me cook!” Arthur protests.

“I’ve seen you hold meat over the fire, sure.”

“You’re just bullying me.” Arthur shakes his head and removes the pot from the stove. “Wanted to try my hand at making a stew.”

Charles watches as he dishes food into two bowls and brings them to the table.

“Now, don’t be expecting anything fancy, or you’ll be disappointed.”

“Arthur, I’ve been eating Pearson’s cooking for months. Any pickiness I had before is sure as hell gone now.”

Arthur retreats into the kitchen and returns with two bottles of beer. “If anyone ever asks what the most difficult part of being an outlaw is, I always have half a mind to tell them it’s the food.”

He sits down across from Charles at their little dining table, something they haven’t done often despite living together, and Charles realizes this is another sliver of normal life that he has been missing.

Arthur’s cooking isn’t bad. Unlike Pearson, he added a touch of seasoning, and though the meat is a bit overcooked, it’s not inedible and it warms Charles’ stomach all the same.

“Thanks for cooking,” Charles says, and Arthur shrugs.

“Cooking is the least I can do for you, really.”

Charles smiles. “Even so.”

The music drifts over them as they enjoy a meal together and the sun makes its final descent towards the mountains.

They pass stories back and forth like they often do. After a while, Arthur toys with his empty beer bottle and gets a faraway look in his eyes.

“I ever tell you I had a kid?”

Charles’ attention sharpens. “You haven’t.”

Arthur turns the bottle between his fingers and doesn’t look up. “I was basically a kid myself. She was a waitress. We were young and stupid. She got pregnant, and for a while, I thought everything was going to work out alright. I came back to them as often as I could, but—”

He sighs, and dread coils in Charles’ stomach.

“Came back one day to find someone had broken into the house, killed both of them for the few bucks they had.”

Charles' hands curl into fists in his lap as sorrow aches in his chest. “Oh, Arthur.”

“It was a long time ago, but…” Arthur trails off and shakes his head. “It was the beginning of a long life of mistakes, ones that I can never seem to learn from.”

Charles reaches out and covers Arthur’s wrist with his hand, and Arthur’s hands still on the bottle. He finally looks up at Charles, face open and vulnerable in a way that catches in Charles’ throat.

“You weren’t the one that broke into that home and murdered two innocent people for pocket change,” Charles says, voice low and soft. “We’ve all made mistakes, but this world ain’t kind. It takes and it takes. Maybe you could have been home that day, but those robbers could have also killed you, right along with them.”

Arthur ducks his head, and a strand of his hair falls loose over his forehead. He’s silent for a long moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is low and raspy. “It was almost the same thing with Mary. I loved her, loved her more than I knew how, but she wanted me to give up the outlaw life, and I wasn’t willing to do that for her. We both got burned because of my failure to change.” His mouth twists ruefully. “You know, she asked me to run away with her, a few weeks before the whole business with Bronte. I let her down like I always do.”

And here he is, as far away from Dutch as he can get, trying his hand at living an honest life with Charles. The admission shimmers between them in the air, and Charles spends a moment relearning how to breathe. He squeezes Arthur’s wrist. “Getting out of that life ain’t easy, especially not when those keeping you there are as good as family to you.”

He thinks about the telegram sitting in his pocket, knows that even this far away, Dutch has the power to drag Arthur right back into the blood and danger.

Arthur shakes his head. “Look at me, wallowing in my own self-pity, as if I’m the only one who’s experienced loss.”

“You’re allowed to feel, Arthur. And I’m grateful you trust me with your past.”

Arthur looks up at him, and he turns his wrist under Charles’ hand so he can clasp Charles’ palm in his own. His eyes are so blue. “Of course I trust you.”

Time stretches, honey-thick between them, and for a moment Charles considers leaning across the table and kissing him, consequences be damned. For a moment, he thinks Arthur might beat him to it.

Arthur pulls back almost abruptly and the moment shatters. “You want something else to drink?” he asks, shaking his empty beer bottle.

“Sure,” Charles replies, something like disappointment turning sour on his tongue.

Arthur brings out a bottle of bourbon and two glasses. He pours a drink for each of them, and then another when their glasses are empty. When Arthur speaks again, there’s warmth buzzing in Charles’ fingers.

“Charles, have you ever danced?”

Charles frowns, caught off guard by the question. “Danced?”

“Yeah, like.” Arthur gestures to the phonograph, which has since fallen silent. “Partner danced with someone.”

“A long time ago, maybe.”

“Would you—” He swallows, looking suddenly nervous. “Would you like to try?”

This is the last thing Charles expected, and it leaves him feeling a little lost. “Why?”

Arthur shrugs, and his mouth pulls up at one corner. “Dancing is fun when you’re with someone you care about, and our lives haven’t been full of much fun. We’re here together, so why not?”

Charles has never been good at saying no to him, and Arthur has never asked him for too much. Charles nods. “Sure. ‘Long as you’re not too worried about getting your toes stepped on.”

Arthur smiles brightly and stands. “Not worried at all.” He crosses over to the phonograph and resets it, and a gentle melody begins filling the room. He returns to stand by Charles’ chair and holds out his hand. “Would you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

Charles can’t help the grin that curls his mouth, and he takes Arthur’s hand and allows Arthur to pull him to his feet. They arrange themselves into a dancing position with Arthur taking the lead, and they start into an easy back-and-forth step. Neither of them is a great dancer, but Arthur’s hand is warm in his own, and his hand on Charles’ back steadies him. They’ve both been drinking, which makes them even less coordinated, but Charles finds he doesn’t care. They are nearly the same height, but like this, Charles appreciates the inch or so he has on Arthur. Arthur is looking at him with a fondness that sticks in Charles’ throat, and Charles, more than ever, wants to kiss him, would give anything to kiss him.

“See, you’re not so terrible,” Arthur says, and it takes Charles a second to realize he’s talking about the dancing.

“What about you? You dance often?” Charles asks.

Arthur laughs, a soft sound in the air between them. “Not at all. The last time was with Mary-Beth when we had that party when Sean—” He sighs and ducks his head.

Charles squeezes his hand and Arthur looks back up at him again, blue eyes bright in the warm light of their living room. His hair looks soft, recently washed, and the collar of his shirt is open casually over his collarbone. Arthur is beautiful. Maybe one day Charles will be able to show him, make him see his own beauty.

Charles laughs in mild surprise as Arthur spins him under his arm before bringing him back in, closer than before. “Don’t lose focus there,” Arthur says, a breathless laugh in his voice.

“You’re the one that’s spinning me when I’ve been drinking.”

A lock of hair has fallen into Charles’ face, and he freezes in surprise when Arthur reaches out and tucks it behind his ear with gentle fingers. They’re not dancing anymore, though the music continues around them and they don’t step back from one another.

Arthur’s fingers linger at the edge of Charles’ jaw. “Charles, I—” There’s a furrow in his brow, and he makes to pull his hand away. Charles reaches out and grabs it. Their eyes lock.

“Arthur.”

Arthur’s eyes flick down to his mouth and back up, and Charles is patient, but he’s still human, and in the end, it takes barely any effort at all to lean the short distance between them and kiss him.

Arthur makes a startled sound, but the hand he has on Charles’ back tightens, and then he’s kissing Charles back like he’s been meaning to do it for too long.

Charles hasn’t kissed anyone in a long time, let alone someone he cares so deeply for, and the feeling is nearly overwhelming. Arthur is everywhere and everything. Charles’ hand slips up Arthur’s back to press at the base of his neck, anchoring, like he’ll slip away if Charles lets go. But Arthur isn’t going anywhere, not with the way he’s holding onto Charles like a lifeline, the way he’s pressing deeper into the kiss.

Charles slides his other hand over Arthur’s jaw, holds him in place so he can break the kiss and see the flustered, wide-eyed expression on Arthur’s face, the gleam of his lips in the light.

“I didn’t know for sure you’d—” Arthur begins, and cuts himself off. “I didn’t know you felt the same way.”

Charles slides his thumb along the stubble on Arthur’s jaw. “We’ve both been fools.” 

_“Charles,”_ Arthur breathes, and the raspy quality of his voice is enough to have Charles pulling him back into another kiss, more urgent than the first.

Charles feels the press of the kitchen table at his back before he realizes they are moving. It’s a sturdy thing, made of solid wood, so Charles doesn’t worry as he hops backwards onto it, perched on the edge. Like this, with Arthur between his knees, Arthur has to tilt his chin up to kiss Charles, and when Charles tugs him closer by two fingers hooked under his suspenders, he revels in the feeling of Arthur’s heat all along his front, the strong lines of his body pressed against Charles’ own.

Arthur pulls back just enough to look up at him. “I been wanting this for so long.”

Charles presses their foreheads together, brushes his nose gently against Arthur’s. “Me too.”

Arthur releases a shaky breath that puffs hot over Charles’ mouth and thumbs the top button of Charles’ shirt in question. Charles nods. Arthur’s fingers make quick work of his shirt, and soon Arthur’s hands are on the bare skin of his chest, a heat against his skin that makes a sigh escape his mouth, his shirt hanging open on his shoulders.

“You are so lovely,” Arthur says, staring at Charles with eyes full of want. His hands slide up and trace Charles’ collarbone, and then he moves forward and presses open-mouthed kisses down Charles’ neck.

Charles’ hands tighten on Arthur’s back and he bares his throat as Arthur’s lips find his Adam’s apple before working down towards his chest, leaving a trail of heat as he goes.

Any lingering chill that Charles may have still had is gone now, lost to the heat of Arthur’s mouth making its way downwards. One of Charles’ hands finds Arthur’s hair as Arthur’s fingers hesitate at Charles’ waistband.

“Charles, I’d like to make you feel good.” He looks up at Charles, and Charles is struck by the fact he’s got Arthur Morgan kneeling between the splay of his knees, blue eyes full of heat as he looks up at Charles. Arthur Morgan, the former muscle and gun of the gang, his edges softened in the warm light of their living space, his expression gentle.

“Yes,” Charles says.

Arthur’s fingers work the fastenings of Charles’ pants open, and quickly Charles loses himself in the heat of Arthur’s mouth, a shock of pleasure that has Charles gripping the edge of the table to prevent tugging on Arthur’s hair. Arthur anchors a hand on Charles’ hip.

“Shit, Arthur,” Charles groans.

Arthur takes one of Charles’ hands and pulls it up to rest on the back of his head. Charles takes the hint and weaves his fingers gently through his soft locks, not pushing, but keeping a steady pressure that Arthur seems to prefer.

It’s doesn’t take long for Charles to reach the point where he’s actively holding himself back from the edge. “I’m close,” he gasps, and Arthur pulls off suddenly, sitting back on his heels and looking up at Charles with a smug expression and a slick mouth.

Charles barely resists whining at the loss.

“Come on,” Arthur says, rising to his feet. “Bed.”

Arthur’s hair is disheveled, and his mouth is pink, but it’s nothing to the way Charles feels. He stumbles after Arthur to Arthur’s bedroom, the closest room, and Charles huffs out an amused laugh as Arthur quickly tugs Charles down onto the bed with him.

“Eager?” Charles says as Arthur pushes Charles’ shirt from his shoulders and sets at his own shirt buttons.

“Hey now, you’re not allowed to say that after all I just did for you,” Arthur protests, tossing his own shirt off the side of the bed.

“What you left unfinished, you mean,” Charles shoots back, and now they’re both smiling as they wrangle out of the last of their clothing.

“I have other plans for you,” Arthur says, and he tugs Charles in so they’re pressed together, nothing between them now.

Charles breathes for a moment, cupping Arthur’s jaw with the palm of his hand and feeling his heart tug. “You can have anything, Arthur. Whatever you want.”

Arthur turns his head and kisses Charles’ palm. “I have everything I want right here.”

Charles finds Arthur beautiful no matter the circumstances, but he takes a possessive delight in the way he looks with his hair messy on the pillow, face twisted in pleasure where he lay underneath Charles. The way he arches his back and groans, the way he bares his throat and grips Charles’ shoulders—nothing compares, and Charles loses himself to it, watches Arthur do the same.

That night, they curl up together, and Charles wishes he could set this moment in amber and keep it forever.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old habits are hard to break.

Charles wakes to morning light slanting through the bedroom windows from a different angle than usual, and it takes him a moment to remember he’s not in his own bed. He blinks to wakefulness and realizes he’s not alone in bed, either. With a warm rush, the night before returns to him, and he can’t stop the small smile that curls his mouth.

Arthur is sitting up in bed next to him, and he’s looking down at something. Charles, still pulling himself from the depths of sleep, takes a moment to focus on what’s in Arthur’s hands.

A yellow piece of paper.

Charles is wide awake in seconds, all remnants of sleep gone as if someone has poured a bucket of cold water over him. The telegram must have fallen out of his pocket last night when Arthur threw his shirt from the bed.

“Arthur.”

Arthur looks over at him like he had forgotten Charles was there. He holds the telegram aloft. “How long have you had this?”

“Since yesterday,” Charles admits, and there’s an awful feeling that’s crawling up his throat, threatening to choke him. “Meant to tell you last night, but…”

Arthur bows his head. His hair is still a mess, and there’s a bruise visible on his neck. Charles feels sick.

“You know I have to go,” Arthur finally says, and his hand drops to his side on the bed.

Charles closes his eyes.

“I can’t let them do this alone. I have to help.”

Charles predicted this, but it doesn’t stop the way his heart feels like it’s shattering in his chest. Charles takes a breath, trying to regain his composure. “You’d throw your life away for Dutch, after everything?”

“I ain’t throwing nothin’ away,” Arthur shoots back, and when Charles opens his eyes to look at him, Arthur’s brow is furrowed and the paper is crinkled in his tight grasp. “But I can’t just leave them to do this alone. I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night.”

“You really think Hosea, Javier, and Sadie aren’t capable? Of all people?”

“This is the Pinkertons we’re talking about. I don’t doubt their ability to finish off even Sadie.”

Charles wants to grab Arthur by the shoulders and shake him, make him see that crossing back over those mountains is a mistake, that he’ll end up dead or worse, but Charles can see in Arthur’s eyes that he’s already made up his mind and nothing Charles says or does will change that. Charles has lost him.

“I’m not leaving because I want to, Charles,” Arthur says, and his voice has taken a lower, softer tone.

 _Yes, you are,_ Charles thinks bitterly, though he remains silent under Arthur’s pleading gaze. Charles should have known that Arthur wouldn’t be able to leave that life behind, that he’d charge right back into it at the first sign of trouble. Charles feels a fool for thinking he’d somehow be different, that he’d be the one to convince Arthur to finally leave the outlaw life.

Arthur’s face falls as Charles stays silent, and he gets out of bed without saying anything else. When Arthur retreats into the washroom, Charles makes his own exit, grabbing his clothing from the floor as he goes. His throat is tight and there’s a prickling in the corners of his eyes. He closes the door of his bedroom and settles on the edge of the bed, closing his eyes against the sting.

After a few long moments, Charles makes himself get up and get dressed. He combs out his hair and tries to let the steady tug of the comb calm his racing heart as he listens carefully to Arthur’s footsteps in the room over. His hands remain steady as he works a braid into his hair, but his heart is anything but.

Charles’ first instinct was to stay holed up in his room until Arthur inevitably left, but Charles knows he would regret it if he did. Instead, he moves into the kitchen and starts preparing coffee as if it were a normal day. When Arthur comes out of his room, he’s wearing his jacket and is holding his hat in his hands, face twisted in something that Charles can’t read.

It hurts to look at him, and Charles has to busy himself pouring a cup of coffee to keep his emotions from spilling over. He hates the shake in his hands.

“I should probably go,” Arthur says hesitantly, “If I want to get a decent amount of travel in today.”

Charles sets the coffee pot down harder than he means to, and the metal clank is loud between them.

Arthur leaves his hat on the table and moves closer. “Charles, as soon as this mess is dealt with, I’m coming back, I promise.” He makes a motion to touch Charles’ shoulder, thinks better of it, and lowers his hand back to his side awkwardly.

Charles still refuses to look up at him. “Where does it end?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Dutch could keep getting into trouble. Any of them could. Where do you draw the line?”

“I owe it to them to—”

“You don’t, Arthur,” Charles snaps, finally looking up. “You don’t owe them anything.” He can feel his sorrow turning to sharp anger, and he knows Arthur can see it on his face with the way his eyes widen in response. “You’ve given them years of your life, lost love and friends and stability. You don’t owe them _anything,_ Dutch even less than the rest. I don’t know why you can’t see that Dutch is using you, but he is. Always has.”

Arthur snags his hat off the table in a jerky motion as a frown creases his features. “I don’t expect you to understand,” he says, voice low and dangerous.

Charles feels something cold settle in his stomach, and he stares at Arthur with a blank face. “What does that mean?”

“Six months is nothing on twenty years, and yet you seem to think your opinion on my relationship with Dutch and Hosea matters. You ain’t got no family to judge the way I handle mine.”

Charles knows Arthur’s lashing out because he’s hurt and conflicted, but the words hit like a punch to the solar plexus, and they leave Charles breathless and pained.

Arthur’s face immediately crumples. “Charles, I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

Charles cuts him off. “I may have been new to the gang, but I recognize loyalty and respect, and Dutch certainly didn’t return what you gave him. I have the patience for a lot of things, Arthur Morgan, but cruelty from you is not one of them.” He crosses his arms to protect himself from Arthur’s stricken expression. “Best stop procrastinating. You’re losing light.”

Arthur shoves his hat on his head and turns, the clunk of his boots loud on the wood as he retreats from the kitchen and their quiet life. Charles grips the edge of the countertop and clenches his jaw against the torrent of emotions building behind his teeth. He wants to yell, to clutch Arthur by the shirtfront and tell him he loves him more than he’s ever loved anyone, demand that he stay.

But Charles remains still and silent as the front door opens and closes and Arthur Morgan exists his life.

Arthur knows he has a tendency to destroy what he touches, has seen it again and again across the unfortunate span of his life, but he has to admit this is a new low. The cabin shrinks behind him in the morning light as Arthur guides Penny further and further from the first tiny pocket of peace Arthur has ever known. He has a bad taste in his mouth and black bile in his stomach, the aftermath of the words he spoke to Charles in that kitchen, the place where they had kissed only the night before.

Sometimes Arthur thinks he’s a fool for even trying. Obviously he is not meant for love if his track record is anything to go by.

The day is the sort of washed-out grey that comes of cold weather, and it bites at Arthur’s skin in retribution. 

Damn Dutch for getting captured. Damn Sadie for telling Charles, and damn Arthur for finding the telegram on the floor and reading it. Arthur knows he has no one but himself to blame, but it feels good to direct his anger at the circumstances that have brought him to this place.

Penny snorts unhappily at leaving Taima behind when they have so often traveled together in the past few months. Arthur rubs her neck and tries to push away his undeserved empathy.

“It’s okay, girl. I know.”

The sun is caught behind an unbroken blanket of clouds, so it has no chance of warming up the frigid landscape as Arthur continues southward. Arthur knows he’ll make much better time than when they first traveled this way, unhindered by lingering weakness from his sickness and traveling much lighter.

Arthur has always been a loner, but as the day nears its end and the sun sinks below the horizon, he realizes he’s not truly been alone since Charles pulled him aside and asked him to run away. Charles has always been there, and Arthur never felt stifled by his presence, not even once, and the thought eats at him as he continues riding much later than usual, only camping when his eyelids get heavy and the land starts to blur in front of his eyes.

Tucked under the thin fabric of his tent, the cold feels more brutal than usual. He’s still sore from the night before, an echo of the heat and joy he felt, now only a twinge that mocks him.

Out here, bitterly alone and hurting, Arthur can’t avoid it: he’s in love with Charles and he may have ruined it forever.

The feeling is very different than what he felt with Mary. Falling for Mary felt like being dragged down into a pool of water, the bottom murky. They had both known their lives were incompatible, but the grip on his ankle was tight and strong. Falling for Charles is like stepping into a warm pool, only dipping your toes in before settling gently into the caress of the water. Arthur isn’t sure, but he thinks that had he stayed they could have made it work, but now he’ll never know.

Arthur is back out in the cold and it’s his own fault. He hurt Charles, and he’ll never forget the look Charles gave him, wide-eyed and pained.

Arthur tugs the blankets higher over his shoulder and tries to quiet his mind. He has a long ride ahead of him, and traveling with Charles has made him complacent. He’s alone on the road now, which means he’ll need his full wits about him.

Winter still has a firm grip on the land, which makes traveling miserable. He can’t seem to get warm, even when the sun breaks through the clouds and shines down on him. He’s slowly forgetting the heat of Charles’ embrace and the warmth of the fire in their living room. A heavy chill has burrowed into his bones, and he’s afraid he’ll never be able to shake it, that it’ll be as permanent as the scar on his chin and the twinge of his shoulder where the O’Driscolls shot him.

He pushes himself harder than he has in a long time, riding as far into the night and starting as early in the morning as Penny can handle. He knows he likely looks like death, with dark smudges under his eyes and a mess of scruff that he doesn’t bother shaving, but Arthur is alone and anyone he passes on the road doesn’t matter anyway. If he looks scary enough that people avoid interacting with him, more the better. He makes good time.

He takes a shortcut past Ashill, which cuts off about half a day of travel, as well as the chance of running into the farmer Henry, who he knows would only ask questions Arthur does not want to answer. After a while, Arthur begins to grow used to traveling alone. He hunts and starts the campfire and boils the water and makes his own coffee. It’s not easy, but Arthur doesn’t mind it. Penny keeps him company, and the wilderness welcomes him like an old friend, despite the bitter cold. By the time he makes it to Greensburg, he’s no longer looking to his right for a person that isn’t there.

When in Greensburg, he stops by the post office to send a telegram, urging Sadie to wait for him before making a move on the Pinkertons. He’s not certain she will listen, but a telegram is better than nothing.

He books the cheapest train ticket he can and leaves Penny with a stable hand in Greensburg with the promise that he’ll be back for her and a small stack of bills to cover her boarding fee while he’s gone.

No matter how much Arthur tries not to think about Charles, it’s a losing battle. He keeps remembering the silkiness of his hair under Arthur’s fingers, the way his breath felt on Arthur’s chin, the low timbre of his voice. Arthur misses him something fierce, and the feeling only increases his guilt and shame.

Sitting idly in a train car, Arthur finds it hard to control the tumbling of his thoughts. He pulls out his journal.

Arthur knows the planes of Charles’ face better than he knows his own, and though he’s never drawn Charles before, too afraid of what rendering him on paper will force him to admit, Arthur feels he’s too far gone to worry about that now.

He draws Charles the way he looked that night, warm light of the kitchen spilling over him as he laughed at Arthur’s insistence that they dance. The wrinkles around his eyes, the curve of his mouth, all sketched fondly with an ache deep in his heart. Arthur knows what his mouth feels like against his own, what his face looks like creased in pleasure. The knowing makes the ache in his gut so much worse.

As the train gets closer and closer to the Grizzlies, Arthur feels as though he’s stepping back into his past, back into the danger and the fear, the frustration and the anxiety. When they left, things had been close to boiling, and Arthur can feel that chaos threatening to eat at his mind now that he’s stepping back into it.

An older couple sits in front of him on the train, their clothing giving away their higher social status. Arthur is wearing similar clothing, but the awkward way he wears it would show him to be new money, if not an imposter all together. These two are natural to it. They sit close together, their bodies attuned to one another in the way of people in love, and Arthur can’t see their faces, but their posture is relaxed and happy. He doesn’t know their lives, but there’s a bitter taste in his mouth as he watches them together.

After things ended with Mary the first time, Arthur had wondered what his life would be like had he been born into luxury like Mary. He had wondered if he would still have met her, if he would have been the man she wanted and the man her father wanted her to marry. Even then, he had a difficult time imagining what he would be like had he not grown up stealing and lying.

It’s been a long time since he’s had those thoughts, but they come to him again, here alone in this train car. Arthur had a taste of a simple, honest life with Charles, but his past caught up with him and dragged him back in. Would being born to an honest life, Arthur wonders, have made things easier?

He would have never met Charles.

Charles is the best man Arthur’s ever known; the most honest, the most loyal, with an unwavering sense of honor. Arthur feels like a better person just being in his company. Whatever Arthur’s life could have been, Charles enriched it just by being a part of it.

“Do you think Sally will be waiting for us when we get there?” the woman asks.

The couple in front of Arthur holds his attention again.

“You sent her a telegram, did you not?” the man replies.

The woman sighs. “I’m sorry. I’m just anxious to see her. I’ve missed her.”

“I have too,” he admits. “It’s not right, a daughter living so far from her parents.”

Arthur wonders how Abigail and John are doing, if they found a place to raise little Jack away from the chaos of outlaw life. The boy deserves a roof over his head, and running with Dutch sure wasn’t going to provide that for him.

Arthur is going to ask after them while he’s with Sadie. Knowing will ease the feeling that he abandoned them those months ago.

By the time the train makes its stop in the mountains, Arthur is a bundled mess of nerves and frustrated energy. He nearly bolts off the train, remembering last minute to pull on his coat to protect himself from the cold. The train station is a good two-hour ride from the area in Colter where Arthur assumes Sadie and the gang will be hiding.

It’s not snowing, but the air is bitterly cold in a way that tucks into the folds of his clothing and threatens to stiffen his joints and bites at his nose. The world around him is pristine with freshly-fallen snow, giving it the appearance of being untouched and almost magical. Arthur knows better. This land is deadly, and not just because of the weather. There are enemies lurking out here, enemies from both sides, and Arthur knows getting back over the mountains after all this is over might pose a challenge.

There’s a small stable near the train station, and there he borrows a horse, a finicky mare that he coaxes into a trot towards where he hopes he’ll find Sadie and her group. The world is quiet, broken only by the occasional howl of a wolf, or the rush of noise that comes from snow falling off a tree branch and into the blanket of snow beneath. Arthur doesn’t like the stillness. He keeps expecting someone to jump out of the woods and attack him like a ghost from his past reanimated.

His new horse snorts her protest at pushing through the snow, but there’s nothing to be done. It’s slow going, and by the time he makes it to the small cluster of buildings they made a camp all those months ago, it’s much later than Arthur would like. 

The sun has almost disappeared behind the mountains entirely by the time Arthur approaches the buildings, and for a moment, he thinks he’ll need to keep looking. The windows are dark and cold, and the place has the feeling of being long-empty. The land is growing dark and dangerous, and Arthur decides that he’ll take shelter in one of the buildings tonight. He won’t risk trudging through the snow in the dark on a wild goose chase.

He spots a flicker of light in the last building on the right, and his heart stutters in his chest. Arthur decides to hitch his horse in the open-ended kitchen so she’s out of the wind. It’s empty now, the fires dark, and Arthur can’t help but think about his first hunting trip with Charles, the first spark of interest he had inspired in Arthur those many months ago.

Arthur hitches his horse and removes her saddle with the promise to come back out here later to feed and brush her. He pulls his coat tighter around himself and trudges through the snow that’s threatening to reach his mid-calf to the cabin with the flickering light. He thumbs his pistol, hoping that he’s about to run into friends and not foes.

He raps his knuckles on the door.

“Who goes there?” comes Sadie’s thick drawl.

“It’s me,” Arthur replies, and the door is thrown open immediately to show Sadie’s furious face.

“If it ain’t the man I told to _stay away,”_ she says as she steps aside to allow Arthur to enter. There’s a small fire roaring in the hearth, and Hosea and Javier both look up as Arthur steps into the room.

“You know me better than that,” Arthur replies, and it’s all he gets the chance to say before he’s enveloped in a tight hug.

“Hosea,” Arthur breathes, hugging him back and closing his eyes.

“You’re a fool,” Hosea replies, and his voice is thick. “Shoulda stayed out there with Charles, where you belong.”

“And leave you to this?” Hosea smells like the herbs he uses and that cologne he’s always preferred. Arthur missed him more than he realized.

“You know we can handle it,” Sadie replies, and when Arthur pulls back from Hosea’s embrace she gestures to herself and then Hosea and Javier. “This is the dream team.”

“But you’re going up against the Pinkertons with all of Cornwall’s money behind them,” Arthur replies, taking a seat next to Javier, who’s barely looking at him.

Hosea shakes his head. “Dutch killed Cornwall.”

Arthur scoffs. “How?”

“Shot him point blank in Van Horne, he did. A right mess, it was.”

“Jesus,” Arthur sighs, rubbing a hand over his chin and feeling the thick scrape of stubble.

“A lot has happened since you left,” Sadie says as she settles down in the free chair. “But I think it would’ve been much worse had you stuck around.”

“She’s right,” Hosea adds. “I can’t tell you how relieved I was when I found out that you and Charles had left. Shocked at first, maybe a little hurt for a day or two, but relieved. I hate to see you back here now.”

“Let’s just rescue Dutch,” Arthur says, waving a hand as if to bat away Hosea’s worry.

“Javier, you want to show Arthur what we’ve got?” Hosea asks, and Javier sighs, unfurling a map and setting it on the small table between them.

“They’ve got Dutch in a camp to the south of here, tucked in this small valley.” He points to an area on the map, and as Arthur takes a closer look at it, he realizes it’s a hand-drawn map of the region that has meticulously picked out the rises and falls of the mountains and the buildings nestled in their protection. They aren’t far from the camp where Dutch is being held, it turns out.

“The Pinkertons have no idea we’re here,” Javier says. “So we’ve got the advantage.”

Arthur frowns. “What are they doin’ with Dutch, anyway? Seems to me they’d want to hang him as soon as possible, considering the mess he’s given them.”

“They’re worried if they try to hang him in the city, there’ll be trouble, just like when Colm O’Driscoll was ever to be hanged. They’re letting things die down, organizing their hands,” Hosea explains. “They don’t know we followed ‘em out here.”

“The perfect time to strike,” Sadie adds with a crooked smile. “They’ll be here for a few days yet, so we have some time to make sure we’ve got our plan down.”

Arthur nods. “Just tell me what you need me to do.”

Sadie and Javier did some scouting of the Pinkerton’s holdout, which means they have a pretty good idea of what they’re up against. Arthur watches in curiosity as Sadie takes the lead organizing their attack, and he thinks about how much he’s missed in the months he’s been gone. Without Dutch here calling the shots, Hosea has taken a step back, and from what Arthur can tell, Sadie is doing a fine job filling his shoes.

Later, when they’ve got a solid plan to attack the following night and are bedding down for the evening, Arthur catches up with Hosea outside where he’s staring up at the stars. Hosea looks over at him and nods.

“How you holdin’ up there?” Arthur asks, now that they’re alone.

Hosea sighs, and he looks older than Arthur’s ever seen him. “The past few months have been…” He trails off and is silent for a moment. “Dutch was already bad when you left, Arthur, but it got worse and worse, and people were jumping ship, and I was doing all I could to reign him in but... Well, you know how he is.”

Arthur nods, pulling a cigarette from his satchel and lighting it. The smoke plumes in the frozen air between them.

“He recruited new people, Dutch did. Two gunners that Micah knows. I didn’t like it one bit, especially when he started leaving me out of his plans. We had a falling out. He took Bill, Micah, and the two gunners. I stayed with everyone who was left. I don’t know what happened exactly, but Dutch was captured, and I still haven’t figured out where Micah and his group went.”

Arthur lets out a stuttering breath of air. The gang had already been threatening to fracture terribly when they left, but this is worse than Arthur imagined. He’s just glad the bloodshed seems to have been at a minimum. “So you’re left cleaning up Dutch’s mess, and his _loyal men_ are nowhere to be found.”

Hosea leans against one of the porch support beams, a wry grin twisting his mouth. “Not surprising in the least.”

Arthur shakes his head and leans on the post closest to Hosea. “What a mess.”

Hosea hums, and they both fall silent for a long moment. When Hosea speaks again, his voice is softer. “Where’s Charles, Arthur?”

Something vicious tugs at Arthur’s heart and he looks down at his boots. “Back in Washington.”

Arthur can feel Hosea’s understanding gaze on him, and Arthur hates the way it chafes against Arthur’s lingering feelings of guilt at leaving Charles.

“I’m assuming it didn’t go well, otherwise he’d be here with you.”

“Charles doesn’t owe Dutch anything,” Arthur says. “And it was best for him to stay behind.”

Hosea shakes his head. “I don’t pretend to know anything about what happened in the months you were gone, but nearing the time you two left, Charles wasn’t doing much for Dutch anymore.”

Arthur frowns and looks up at Hosea. “Charles was always the hardest worker—”

Hosea holds up a hand to cut him off. “I’m not doubting that. What I’m sayin’ is Charles was sticking around for _you,_ Arthur.”

The stars are bright this far up in the mountains, but they offer little guidance as Arthur looks up at them. They’re cold and quiet.

“I can never seem to do right by the people I love,” Arthur says, voice low enough that he’s not sure Hosea can hear him.

A hand grasps his arm, right above his elbow, a reassuring weight. “Arthur Morgan, you are a man torn in too many directions,” Hosea says, voice low to match Arthur’s. “Once all this is through, you have to promise me you’re going to stop following Dutch to destruction. You deserve better. Charles deserves better, too.”

Arthur’s chin hits his chest, and he feels the weight of the last year sit heavy on his shoulders, threatening to push him to the ground where he will never get up again. “As long as you do the same,” he replies, and he feels more than sees Hosea sag a little, like an old house weary with time and wear. His hand drops from Arthur’s arm.

“I will try, Arthur. I will try.”

A small smile curves Arthur’s mouth unbidden. “You know, Charles and I built a house. It’s near the border of Canada, right on the prettiest lake I’ve ever seen. We talked about letting John and Abigail bring little Jack and stay with us for a while. You too.”

Hosea looks at him with warmth, a smile of his own on his face. “That sounds wonderful. I wondered if you two had made it.”

“We did. We made it and we were making it work.” Arthur heaves a sigh and tries not to let his thoughts spiral downwards again. “Until all this, of course.”

“Does Charles know?”

“Know what?” Arthur asks, frowning.

“That you love him.”

Arthur can feel the years stretching between them; all the times exactly like this that Hosea slowed them down and asked how Arthur was feeling, what Arthur was thinking. Hosea has always been the one to worry, the one to understand. Arthur had idolized Dutch, but he cares for Hosea in the way a son loves their father, in the way Arthur was never able to feel for his real father.

“I don’t know,” Arthur admits. A roll in the hay does not a love confession make, and Arthur desperately wishes he had said something before leaving. Wishes he had left Charles with anything other than the unkind words he had thrown at him like a slap.

“Well, you’re just going to have to get back to him in one piece and tell him yourself,” Hosea says. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m freezing my ass off out here. Let’s get inside and get warm.”

Javier and Sadie are playing a card game at the table, and Sadie looks up when they reenter. “You two wanna join us?”

Arthur takes a seat at the table and notices the way Javier eyes him. Whatever is going on there will have to be dealt with eventually, but Arthur is exhausted down to his bones and decides that’s a problem for tomorrow. “Whatcha playin’?”

Sadie smiles and deals him in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As we near the end of this fic, I might not be able to stick with the same posting schedule, though hopefully it won't be too delayed. The number of chapters is also subject to change, as I fiddle with the last bit of this story.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things end as they began: on a snowy mountain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If everything goes to plan, there will be only one chapter after this. I will probably gush on the last chapter too, but I just wanted to say that the support I've received on this fic has been amazing. You are all so supportive, and it's made this process so, so worth it.

Charles spends the day that Arthur leaves in an angry haze, something he doesn’t allow himself very often. Charles learned through experience that strong emotions only serve to make the world harder on him, and so he has controlled them carefully in order to protect himself. Sometimes they bubble over, but most often, Charles maintains a steady façade and hopes that people won’t try to read too deeply.

Arthur has always been good at reading him, and apparently, tugging strong emotion from him.

Taima snorts nervously, sensing his sour mood as he tends to her, and he pets her nose in apology. After being around other horses for so long, Charles imagines the solitude is also making her nervous, and his heart aches anew. Arthur’s exit has hurt all of them, one way or another.

The house is empty and echoing without Arthur, and Charles spends a long moment just standing in the kitchen, wondering what he’s going to do with himself now. Charles knows he’s being foolish: when Arthur was here, they lived their own lives, often going long periods of time during the day without seeing each other.

But he won’t run into Arthur, won’t see evidence of his life scattered in the house, won’t hear him humming to himself as he sketches in the living room. Arthur is the first person in a very long time to have the ability to hurt him, and Charles knows that no matter how he protected himself against it, Arthur would have found a way to burrow to his heart regardless. Right now, alone in the quickly darkening house, the thought isn’t a good one.

He spends two days like that, alone and angry, and try as he might to break out of the black cloud of a mood he’s in, it feels impossible.

Charles dreams. He dreams of Arthur’s hands, his voice, the feel of his breath on Charles’ face. The dream is full of heat until it isn’t—suddenly Arthur is alone, body broken and bleeding somewhere cold with no one there to save him or even sit with him while his life pours away. It’s quiet, and there’s blood on Arthur’s mouth. His face is weary, turned up into the watery sun.

Charles wakes with a start, and it takes him a few long moments to realize the dark around him is his bedroom. He wipes his face and his hand comes away wet. Charles sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed, hunching over his knees and trying to calm his breathing and his heartbeat.

Charles holds his face in his hands. “You’re a fool,” he tells himself. “A damn fool.”

Taima isn’t used to Charles finding her at this time, but she’s a clever and loyal horse, so by the time Charles has the saddle in place and everything packed, she’s ready to go. He glances at the house, dark and cold with no one inside, and vows that the next time he sees this place, he won’t be alone.

He digs his heels into Taima’s sides and she tears off into the darkness.

He leaves a letter in town for Philip with a favor: if he is willing, check up on the house here and there while Charles and Arthur are gone.

Arthur has a two day lead on him, and Charles knows Arthur has a tendency to push himself too hard when he’s alone. Catching up with him isn’t likely, but Charles knows where he’s going, and he hopes that will be enough. The dream clings in Charles’ mind like cobwebs around his fingers—the more he tries to banish it the more it tangles.

When he had asked Arthur to run away with him those months ago, he had a handful of motivations: avoiding the bank robbery, convincing others that leaving was an option, getting Arthur out from under Dutch’s hand. Now, though, the one that sticks with him is the thought that stealing Arthur away was the only way to save him. Charles knew dragging Arthur away from that world would be difficult, but Charles wonders if anything he does will ever be enough.

Charles banishes that thought from his mind. Right now, his goal is saving Arthur from whatever blood and pain lurks at the end of this journey.

Charles has always known the land to be just as forgiving as he wants it to be. There’s something to find even in the most barren of environments, game to hunt in the coldest of climates. The land gives you what you ease from it, and as long as you take care of it, it will take care of you.

As Charles chases Arthur’s shadow, the land feels different. It’s as if he’s a trespasser here—it’s an unfounded thought, but his own dark mood paints everything around him in shades of dismal grey. He thinks about the blood on Arthur’s mouth in that dream, the way his eyes had searched for someone, _anyone_ to be with him as he died. It’s this imagery that plays behind his eyelids when he closes his eyes, and it’s this imagery that pushes him onward, as fast as he can manage.

Taima can feel his energy, and it makes her much flightier than usual. She won’t bolt or throw him, but Charles can feel her twitchiness and makes sure to comfort her often. She’s a good horse, and Charles is grateful for her loyalty.

It’s early February, and the weather is bitterly cold. Charles sits close to the fire at night and layers up when he rides. His fingers are constantly stiff, and his old hand injury twinges in the cold. The warmth of their house is long forgotten, and Charles wonders if he’ll ever be warm again. It’s another needlessly bleak thought, but he can’t help it.

Days pass in the same manner, and Charles tries to keep his mind clear and focused as he travels south. He makes it to the train station in good time and books a trip east.

As he gets on the train and takes his seat, his only thought is that he won’t make it in time. 

Arthur wakes with stiff fingers and a stinging nose. Even with the fire roaring in the fireplace of the little building they’re sleeping in, the cold sneaks its creeping hands into the room and grabs hold of them. Arthur is positioned closest to the window and furthest from the fire, so he gets the brunt of it. He sits up in his bedroll and squints at the watery sun coming through the window. It must be early morning.

There’s a flash of color from outside, and he sees Javier pass by the window to the front of the building. Arthur struggles to his feet and skirts around a sleeping Hosea and Sadie, and he makes it to the door without disturbing either of them.

When he steps outside, Javier shoots him a look and then turns right back to staring out into the bright, frosty morning, cigarette smoke pouring from his frowning mouth.

“Mornin’,” Arthur greets as if Javier’s attitude isn’t ice cold.

Javier nods, a stiff motion, and nothing else.

“Listen, I know you’re furious with me and nothing I say will help that, but I hope this won’t interfere with us working together to get Dutch back.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Javier snaps.

“I didn’t say you _were,_ Javier. I’m just making sure.”

Javier turns to him, and there’s anger in his expression where there had only been coldness before. “I’m not stupid enough to think we couldn’t use your help rescuing Dutch, but I don’t need to be friends with you to work with you.” He sighs and turns away from Arthur to stare back out into the snow. “You and Charles made your loyalties very clear.”

Arthur drags a hand through his hair and holds back the curse he feels dancing on his tongue. “I don’t know what I can say to make it any better, but we had everyone’s safety in mind when we left.”

“Bullshit.”

“No, listen to me, Javier. Whether or not you agree with us, I don’t care much. But Charles and me, we left because we thought it would be the best way to protect everyone from Dutch’s ideas. You know that bank job would have gone incredibly wrong had we all gone in, guns blazing.” Arthur sighs, and it puffs from his mouth in a big cloud. “Does Charles strike you as a traitor? Do I? I’ve spent years of my life protecting this gang.”

Javier tosses the end of his cigarette to the ground and extinguishes it with the heel of his boot. “If telling yourself that makes you feel better, go ahead. I don’t buy it.”

Arthur sighs and turns away. Javier has every right to feel this way, but that doesn’t make it sting any less. He’s always respected Javier, and having his ire directed his way is painful.

Hosea and Sadie are up not long after that, sparing Arthur from the awkwardness. They immediately get to work making sure their plan is as polished as their guns. Arthur feels adrenaline humming in his veins, and he realizes it’s the first time in a long time he’s felt like this. His life with the gang was full of this feeling, and sinking back into it feels like putting on a pair of old shoes, not comfortable but familiar.

As the sun begins its evening descent, they pull on weapon belts and hats and steel themselves, ready to face the remaining Pinkertons one last time. The four of them step out into the growing evening, its biting chill forgotten under the buzz of anticipation.

The ride takes about an hour, and when they can just barely see the flickering glow of a fire, they leave their horses behind in a thick patch of pine trees so they can sneak up undetected.

Arthur and Sadie agreed to take point, and the two of them creep forward through the snow, splitting at the last minute to dispatch the men keeping watch as quietly as they can. They time it so that they are out of view of the cabin windows when they attack.

As Arthur plunges his knife into the man’s throat and listens to his death gurgle, he tries to remember the last time he killed someone. He thinks it was one of the Pinkertons at Emerald Ranch, and the knowledge that it’s been so long sits strangely.

He tugs the body into a patch of bushes where Hosea and Javier are waiting for the two of them. Sadie joins them a moment later with the man she killed, and then she wipes a spatter of blood off her cheek.

“Alright. Looks like there’s four more men in the house,” she says. “These losers have no idea what’s coming.

Arthur pulls a key off of one of the dead men. “Good luck, everyone. Let’s make this count,” he says with a flick of his fingers and creeps off to the house. The snow blankets the world around him, muffling the normal nighttime sounds, and Arthur feels that wretched quiet sink into him. Even now, Arthur can’t help thinking about how he wishes Charles were by his side.

The door clicks open easily to the turn of the key, and Arthur already has his gun drawn. There are two men in the living room, sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, and they startle, eyes wide.

“Hands up!” Arthur shouts, and Sadie, Hosea, and Javier burst through the door behind him.

They both raise their hands slowly. “What in the hell…?”

The door in the back of the house bangs open, and the two remaining Pinkertons thunder out, guns drawn.

“Put them down!” Arthur snarls, but they keep coming, and Arthur watches as Hosea and Javier easily take them down with ear-rattling gunfire in the small space. Their bodies crumple to the wood flooring.

There’s more gunfire, and the two men Arthur was watching also crumple to the ground. He turns to Sadie, who shrugs. “Leaving any of them alive is a mistake.”

Arthur jerks his head, and they creep into the back hallway. There’s only one closed door left, and with Milton unaccounted for, Arthur knows what they’ll find behind it.

Sadie kicks it open, and it takes them a moment to realize what they’re seeing.

An empty bedroom.

The sound of hooves thundering through packed snow reaches their ears from outside.

Arthur’s heart shoots to his throat. “He’s making a break for it!” he shouts, and the four of them scramble out of the house and towards their horses. Arthur reaches his horse first, and when he digs his heels into her sides, she tears forward with gleeful abandon. Milton is nothing but a dark shape on horseback in the snowy distance, and from what Arthur can see, Dutch is on the horse with him. Arthur isn’t sure what sort of state Dutch is in, but Milton is riding too fast for even a perfectly healthy man to roll off safely. The terrain is rocky and the trees stick out at odd intervals, and Arthur doesn’t like the likelihood of surviving a fall like that.

“Milton!” Arthur shouts. “You better stop the fucking horse.”

He’s gaining on Milton, and he can just make out the red fabric of Dutch’s vest, his coat long forgotten. Milton is bent over the front of his horse, willing it to go faster through the snow.

Sadie, Javier, and Hosea catch up to Arthur, and the four of them tear down the snow-logged road, horses huffing and puffing in the freezing air.

“You’ll regret this!” Milton shouts, and his arm flings out, gunfire lighting bright and loud in the growing night.

Arthur ducks his head and pushes forward. When he’s finally close enough to see through the snow, he notices that Dutch has his wrists tied behind his back, and though he appears to be awake, Arthur’s not sure if he’s entirely lucid. There’s a strange expression on his face, and he’s not looking at his potential saviors at all. His hair is limp, and his hat is missing, and Arthur thinks he looks much older than the last time he saw him.

Arthur draws his pistol and aims. Milton jerks the reigns at the last minute, and the shot misses. Arthur curses as Milton pulls away from him to the right and tears off the road into the woods.

What was already a treacherous ride becomes even more so as they navigate around roots and branches and small patches of rock. Arthur knows one wrong step could send them tumbling to their deaths, but Milton doesn’t seem to be paying the danger any mind. His horse is huffing under the added weight, and Arthur wonders how long she’ll hold.

Gunfire explodes through the trees, and Arthur ducks.

Even through the rush of wind and the explosive pop of gunfire, Arthur hears the roaring river before he sees it. It cuts through the woods, the water a murky dark in the dusk, tumbling at a speed so quick that Arthur knows stepping into it will ensure a quick and watery death for all of them.

Milton tugs on the reigns and takes an angled approach to the river.

Arthur spots it a few seconds later—a tiny, rickety bridge that looks like it’s barely holding over the churning water.

Arthur pushes his horse faster. Sadie, Javier, and Hosea are dragging behind him, and Arthur is determined to stay as close to Milton as possible.

The water roars in his ears, and another bullet whizzes past his ear. Milton’s aim is off, and he hasn’t hit any of them, but Arthur won’t let himself get cocky.

As they near the bridge, it looks even more fragile. Arthur had thought the bronchitis would be his end, a death of choking lungs and a fiery throat. The water calls out to him, threatening another death from airless lungs, this one watery and cold.

“Milton, that bridge won’t hold!” Arthur shouts. His voice is barely audible over the sound of the roaring water, and Milton tugs the reigns and his horse gallops through the snow towards the tiny bridge, ears pressed back against its head in barely checked fear.

Hooves thunder on crumbling, creaking wood. Arthur takes a biting breath of cold air and follows him. There’s a loud crack as Arthur’s horse joins Milton’s on the bridge, and Arthur feels the stability of the wood shift and sway. He pushes his horse faster and prays to a god he doesn’t believe in.

By some miracle, both Milton and Arthur make it across the bridge before it gives up and crumbles ceremoniously into the dark water.

“Arthur!” Hosea calls. The three of them are stuck on the other side, staring with wide eyes at the place where the water has consumed everything but the bare bones of the bridge. “We’ll find another way over! Keep going!”

Arthur chases after Milton through the steadily thinning trees. The land slopes upward and becomes more and more treacherous as they go, the soft snow of a forest floor giving way to a rocky terrain that grows harder and harder under their horses’ hooves.

“Milton, this is crazy!” Arthur shouts when Milton shows no signs of slowing.

The path drives its way up through the peaks of two mountains before curving sideways and around the side of the one on the left. The path is narrow, and Arthur knows the stone to be slippery and uneven. His horse is already snorting her discomfort, and Arthur pats her neck in sympathy. If either of them slips now, the consequences are fatal. As they take the path to the side, the sounds of rocks crumbling under hooves and falling off the side of the cliff make a cold shiver run down Arthur’s spine.

Arthur is close to Milton, though he doesn’t dare make a move right now for fear that they’ll both go tumbling to their deaths. Milton has both hands on the reigns and isn’t looking back at Arthur, his full concentration on keeping his balance.

The path broadens into a flat outcropping, and Milton reaches it and turns, eyes wide as he realizes the path doesn’t continue onward from there.

Arthur positions his horse so he’s blocking the path back and draws his pistol. The moonlight is bright and crisp and highlights them in an otherworldly glow. “Looks like it ends here, Milton. Hand him over.”

Milton swings off of his horse and drags Dutch off with him. Dutch seems to be lucid, but his face betrays nothing as Milton hauls him closer to the edge of the cliff.

Arthur quickly hops off his own horse and approaches them. “Milton!”

“The Van der Linde gang is _through_!” He lifts his gun and points it at Dutch’s temple. “You have gotten away with being a menace to society for _too long,_ and now you’ll finally face the consequences _.”_

“Milton, it’s over. We killed your men and you’re cornered. Is Dutch worth your life?”

Arthur can tell by the flat look in Milton’s eyes that there’s little chance for this ending with all of them alive. Arthur is going to have to think quickly.

“Van der Linde was scheduled for public execution next week, but I’m flexible. If it means he doesn’t get free, I’ll kill him right here,” Milton says. His hat still sits on his head, though it’s slightly askew, and the ends of his coat flap in the wind cutting across the side of the mountain face.

It’s bitterly cold, and it cuts through right to Arthur’s bones.

Milton is standing close enough to the edge that if Arthur shoots him, he’ll likely take Dutch over with him, and Arthur wouldn’t be able to reach him in time. He begins slinking closer as slowly as possible, hands up and face passive. “Milton, listen to me—”

“Now, why would I do that?” Milton oozes. “You’re nothing but a lawless criminal, and it seems to me I’ve got the advantage here.” Milton thumbs the hammer of his pistol and it clicks. “Anything you want to say to Dutch, Mr. Morgan?”

Arthur breathes and the air around him stills. It’s been a long time since he’s done any gunslinging, but he can feel the way his mind clears and knows the skill hasn’t left him.

The world narrows to Milton’s hand on the gun and his sneering face.

In a single breath, Arthur lifts his pistol and fires, once, twice, into Milton’s gun hand and his shoulder, and before he breathes out, he’s surging forward.

Milton’s shout fills the air as Arthur’s hand grasps the silk of Dutch’s vest and _tugs._ His heels dig into the snowy rock and the world tilts backward as he goes sprawling onto the flat cliff.

He hears Milton’s reedy shout grow distant and he closes his eyes for one moment of peace.

The mountaintop glows white in the moonlight as Arthur climbs to his feet and tries to catch his breath. His heart beats a wild pattern in his chest, and the yawning cliff still feels like it’s dragging him down to a rocky death.

“Can’t say I expected to see your face again,” comes Dutch’s voice from beside him, and Arthur looks up to see that Dutch has climbed unsteadily to his feet and regards him with something like a sneer twisting his features, regal despite the way his hands are still bound behind his back.

“I didn’t expect it either, but here I am, saving your hide.” Arthur straightens and the two stare at each other in the milky moonlight. Arthur isn’t sure exactly what he feels when he looks at this man. Where once there had been feeling enough to pull Arthur along on Dutch’s wild schemes, now there is nothing but the low ache of regret and loss. Arthur finally saw beneath Dutch’s mask, and the man that stares at him now is not the Dutch Arthur thought he knew all those years.

“You should have stayed away, Arthur,” Dutch says.

Even here, with Arthur the only person who stood between Dutch and death, Dutch is unable to see what Arthur has done for him.

“Maybe I should have,” Arthur replies, a bitter taste on his tongue. Even so, he steps forward with his knife and cuts the rope from Dutch’s wrists.

Dutch rubs them absentmindedly. “You and Charles broke my heart,” he says, voice low enough that Arthur barely hears it, a strange contrast to his normal booming volume. “I trusted you, and you broke it, Arthur. You broke it.”

“You didn’t give us much choice,” Arthur replies. “You were leading us to destruction and wouldn’t listen to anyone.”

“Destruction wouldn’t have come had I had you behind me, Arthur!” Dutch shouts. “I needed you. The gang needed you.”

“Like Sean needed me? Kieran? Davey and Jenny and Mac? We were on a train headed off a cliff, Dutch, and I was sitting there watching it happen.”

Arthur feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up right before a voice comes from the side.

“Well, if it ain’t the missing cowpoke.”

Arthur turns, and standing on the path leading away from the cliff is Micah and two other men Arthur doesn’t recognize. Alarm bells start ringing in his head, fully aware they have him boxed in on this cliff.

“Micah.”

“Bold of you to show your face here again, after everything you’ve done.” Micah’s stance is lazy, like he knows there’s nothing here for him to fear. The men on either side of him bristle menacingly, and Arthur feels his old hatred for Micah bubble to the surface.

“I saved Dutch’s life. Where were you?”

“That would be admirable, true,” Micah replies. “If it weren’t you and Smith to blame for his capture.”

“So you get off scot-free?” Arthur asks, fury heating his veins. “We were halfway across the country, minding our goddamn business and we get blamed for what you were here to prevent?” When he glances at Dutch, Dutch has a distant look in his eyes that doesn’t bode well. When Arthur turns back to Micah, he sees that the three men have moved in closer.

“You’re the reason the gang broke up, Morgan,” Micah says in that wheedling tone of his. “You and Smith showed your yellow undersides and others followed suit.”

“Maybe it was time the gang broke up,” Arthur spits. “Maybe Milton was right. This country is getting too small for people like us.”

“Listen to yourself,” Micah says, stalking closer. “You really are a traitor.”

Arthur barely throws an arm up in time to block Micah’s swing, and he despairs at the sound of his gun clattering across the rocks away from him.

Arthur is a better fighter than Micah, but he’s also out of practice, and he feels the pull and ache in his muscles as he blocks hit after hit.

“You gettin’ slow on me?” Micah taunts, and Arthur lands a punch on his jaw that snaps Micah’s head back.

“You’re a fucking snake,” Arthur hisses.

Micah lands a jab in Arthur’s gut and Arthur grunts in pain. It has started snowing again, and the white flakes only make their fight more treacherous.

Micah’s gunners are watching carefully, waiting for the moment that Micah will need their help. They’re not burly, and maybe Arthur could take them individually, but Arthur doesn’t like the odds of three against one. Arthur’s fist connects with Micah’s jaw again, and the taller of the two gunners takes a step forward.

Micah growls and takes a big step back from Arthur. “You two! Go find Morgan’s friends,” he hisses, and they nod and tromp away through the snow. “I don’t need help fighting a traitor,” Micah says, and he lunges forward again.

The ground is slippery under their feet, and every hit Micah lands stings with the bitter bite of the cold. Dutch stands off to the side, but Arthur doesn’t risk looking over at him. He knows he won’t like what he sees on Dutch’s face, and Micah won’t hesitate if Arthur gets distracted.

“I shoulda let you die in Strawberry,” Arthur grunts as he kicks Micah in the shin and watches him double over with a hiss of pain. Micah goes down with a strangled yell when Arthur launches a jab into his exposed side. His hat comes off and slides across the snowy rocks.

Micah rolls before Arthur has a chance to pin him, and though he stumbles on the way back to his feet, he still manages it.

Snow is beginning to collect in the collar of Arthur’s jacket, and it bites viciously at his nose, a painful backdrop to the throbbing of his cheekbone where Micah landed a punch.

Arthur hates the cold and he hates this damn mountain.

Time goes sharp and splintered as exhaustion sets in. Micah puts up a good fight. He can feel the split in his lip and the black eye he knows he’ll be sporting later. Micah’s face is a mess of bruising and blood at this point, and the oily grin that had been there before is gone.

They both know Arthur is going to win this one.

Micah slips, and Arthur springs on him, hands going to Micah’s throat on an instinct born of years and years of fighting.

“Get up, Arthur.”

Arthur tears his gaze from Micah’s snarling visage and looks over at Dutch, right up into the barrel of the pistol Dutch is pointing at him.

“Dutch?” Arthur asks through heaving, labored breaths.

Dutch’s face is stone-cold with nothing behind his eyes, and Arthur feels the cold take hold of him.

“Get up,” he says again, and his face doesn’t change. Arthur doesn’t recognize this man in front of him.

Or maybe he does, and that’s why the despair tightening in his gut is so strong.

Pain slices through his thigh, and he gasps and tumbles off of Micah, hands going to the brand new throbbing wound. Micah’s face is split in a manic smile, and the knife in his grip is covered in Arthur’s blood. Micah struggles to his knees. “Stay alert there, Morgan. Get distracted and someone might stick a knife in you.”

Arthur clutches his leg and squints at Micah. At some point during the fight, Arthur lost his hat, and he sees it sitting behind Micah gathering snow.

“You’re deranged,” he pants. “Both of you.” The warmth of the blood under his hands is concerning.

Micah advances on him, knife held aloft, and Arthur barely rolls out of the way in time to avoid a slash to his chest. The next slash of Micah’s knife nicks his cheek, and Arthur hisses against the sting. The world is beginning to swim around him, and Arthur realizes that even if he escapes Micah, the blood loss might kill him anyway.

Arthur rolls onto his back to escape another slash, and Micah straddles him, a reversal of their positions only a moment earlier.

“Any last words before I cut you open, cowpoke?” Micah sneers. There’s blood on his teeth.

A gunshot rings out in the still air, and Micah’s eyes go wide. Arthur watches in disbelief as he coughs and blood paints his lips a deep crimson. He topples sideways off Arthur and to the cold ground, and there’s Charles behind him, standing where the cliff meets the path to the rest of the mountain, pistol extended and expression flat and determined.

Arthur shoves Micah the rest of the way off of him and scrambles to a sitting position. “Charles?”

He looks like an avenging angel in his black coat, his hair caught in the stiff wind wrapping around the side of the mountain, and Arthur thinks there’s no way he’ll ever love someone as much as he loves this man right here. This man who saved his life _again._

“Arthur, are you okay?” Charles asks.

Arthur’s leg is still bleeding, and his mouth feels cottony and dry, which he knows can’t be good, but he doesn’t get the chance to respond.

“Mister Smith,” Dutch says, and it’s the flat quality of his voice that has Arthur tearing his gaze away from Charles to Dutch, who has since lowered his gun and is watching Charles with glittering eyes. “What a pleasure to see you again.” He hasn’t reacted to the body of his former confidant that lay near Arthur.

“I’m taking Arthur and leaving,” Charles says, and there’s a hardness to his gaze Arthur hasn’t seen in a long time. “I’m assuming you can find your own way off this mountain.”

“You and Arthur, you broke my heart,” Dutch says as if Charles hadn’t spoken. “Stealing away in the middle of the night, leaving your _family_ behind.”

There’s something like fear crawling in Arthur’s stomach looking at the expression on Dutch’s face. Arthur’s gun is just out of reach, collecting snow a few yards away, and he begins sliding towards it as quietly as he can. His pulse is thumping in his skull, and the world around him has gone papery and thin.

Charles doesn’t reply, and though he keeps glancing at Arthur, he doesn’t move towards him. Making any sudden movements feels dangerous, like Dutch is only a moment away from snapping.

Dutch’s expression hardens. “Arthur’s loyalty was unbreakable until you joined our gang. If I had known you would steal him away from me…” He shakes his head.

“Arthur deserves happiness,” Charles replies. “He deserves more than what you gave him.”

“I gave him _everything,_ ” Dutch growls. “Everything I had.”

“He came back to save your life,” Charles says, and Arthur’s skin prickles at the calm danger he can hear in Charles’ voice. “And you would have watched him die.”

“I’ve heard enough of this,” Dutch snaps, and his voice cracks on the last word.

“Good. We’re leaving.”

Arthur’s fingers close around the grip of his pistol, and he straightens just in time for horror to fill his chest.

Dutch’s expression is stony and flat and he extends his arm with cold efficiency. Charles moves immediately, but he’s not fast enough, and the shot that cracks through the air hits him in the shoulder as he tumbles to the ground.

“Charles,” Arthur chokes, and with fury and fear bubbling in his veins, he aims at Dutch and shoots him in the right knee. Dutch crumples to the ground with a strangled shout and his gun clatters away, far enough that he’s no longer a threat.

Arthur drags himself to where Charles has fallen, vision darkening around the edges as blood loss catches up to him.

“Charles.”

Charles has a hand clamped over his shoulder and looks up at Arthur with dark eyes.

“You came for me,” Arthur says, and he feels tears gathering in his eyes.

“You need me,” Charles replies, and Arthur laughs a watery laugh and brushes Charles’ hair out of his face with shaking fingers.

“I sure do.”

“Arthur, your leg.”

“I know. It ain't good.”

Charles presses his eyes shut and breathes in a shaky breath. “I was supposed to save you.”

The pain has all but disappeared from Arthur’s leg, and he knows it’s a bad sign, but it allows him to lean in close to Charles. “You did save me. You did. You’re always saving me.”

Charles opens his eyes again, and stares up at Arthur. Arthur swipes his thumb across Charles’ cheekbone and watches his eyelids flutter. He presses their foreheads together and feels Charles’ warm breath on his chin.

“You’re worth saving,” Charles says.

It’s with Charles’ voice in his ears and a warmth in his heart he thought long gone that Arthur’s world goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on [tumblr](https://discocrowley.tumblr.com)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Injuries and hearts heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks! I am so very grateful for everyone who has followed this fic and showed me such wonderful support. I poured my heart into this story, and I am so glad it resonated with people. It is with a bittersweet feeling in my heart that I post this and bid you all farewell (for now)!

Charles thought it might be the strings of fate that pulled him to that mountain in time to put a bullet in Micah’s back, but as he watches Arthur’s eyes flutter shut, he thinks it’s more likely some cruel trick designed to dangle a happy ending in front of him only to snatch it back at the last moment.

Arthur’s lifeblood flows from the wound in his thigh, and Charles can’t even tie a tourniquet with the bullet wound in his shoulder.

“Arthur, please…” he pleads, good hand going to Arthur’s face. “Please.” He closes his eyes against the throbbing pain. Perhaps this was where their journey was always supposed to end. They’re together, and maybe that’s all Charles can hope for. Maybe death is the only way. His eyes trace the lovely planes of Arthur’s face, peaceful and as quiet as the snow that settles gently around them. 

The sound of hoofbeats catches Charles’ attention, and he looks away from Arthur’s slack face to the three horses picking their way down the path. His pulse quickens. 

Sadie, Hosea, and Javier.

“Hurry,” Charles calls to them, his heart firmly lodged in his throat. “Arthur’s dying.”

Sadie is the first to hop off her horse and move to their side. Her bright gaze assesses the damage, and she quickly pulls the scarf from around her neck and begins tying the tourniquet Charles was unable to. “Sorry it took us so long to get here,” she says. “Micah’s idiot friends stopped us when we got across the river.”

Hosea and Javier have also dismounted, and Charles watches as Javier approaches Dutch, while Hosea only glances at him before hurrying to Arthur’s side.

“What happened?” he asks, voice low. He touches the side of Arthur’s face with gentle fingers, grief twisting his features. A moment later, he notices that Charles is injured, and his hands come up to check his wound.

Charles releases a shaky sigh and lets him. “I reached them in time to see Dutch watching as Micah tried to murder Arthur with a knife. I killed Micah and then Dutch shot me.”

Hosea sighs, his fingers gentle on Charles’ shoulder. “Arthur was a fool for coming back here,” he says, and Charles closes his eyes.

Hosea secures a makeshift bandage over Charles’ wound using a piece of cloth and looks at Sadie. “We need to get off this mountain. Arthur won’t survive much longer untreated.”

Charles is beginning to feel lightheaded, and he thinks he might not either.

“Charles, you’re with me,” Hosea says. “There’s no way you can ride that horse alone.”

“I’m fine,” Charles protests. “If that changes, I’ll let you know. Better to have my own horse.”

Hosea sighs, but it doesn’t look like he has the energy to argue.

“I’ll ride with Arthur,” Sadie says.

Javier looks over at them with a dark expression on his face. “I’m taking Dutch. None of you try to follow me.”

Charles feels a small buzz of relief at that. He has always respected Javier, but right now, the last thing he wants to do is think about Dutch any more than necessary. If Javier wants to take him away, Charles is planning to let him, and judging by the silence, neither Sadie nor Hosea object either.

“Be well, Javier,” Hosea says.

Javier doesn’t reply.

Getting Arthur up on a horse is difficult. Hosea and Sadie work together to heave him up, and then Charles helps Hosea hold him in place with his good arm while Sadie climbs into the saddle.

“Why the hell does he weigh this much?” Sadie grumbles as she wraps an arm around his middle. “Making our lives difficult.”

Charles and Hosea mount up, and Charles follows where Hosea and Sadie lead. He’s not sure where they’re going, but the further they go, the more he’s sure he wouldn’t be able to tell anyway. The snow is thick, and Charles’ mind is fuzzy with blood loss. There’s a warm patch on his shoulder, and he can’t tell if it’s fresh blood or the heat of pain.

The image of Arthur’s face, pale and dazed as he leans over Charles and thanks him for saving his life keeps dancing behind Charles’ eyelids. There’s a horrible ache in Charles’ stomach, and the thought that he may never hear Arthur’s voice again lingers in his mind. Their home sits halfway across the country, empty and dark, a monument to the life they almost had. If Arthur dies, Charles will not return to that house.

The world has turned foreign and strange in Charles’ eyes, and he feels himself listing a bit to the side in the saddle. 

“Hosea,” he calls softly.

Hosea turns, and it only takes him a moment to realize why Charles spoke.

By the time Charles has joined Hosea on his horse, the world is nearly dark, and it takes not much longer in the biting cold for the darkness to finally pull Charles under.

Charles wakes to the sight of sunlight shifting on a wood ceiling, feeling warmer than he’s felt in days. His shoulder aches, but it’s nothing like the splitting pain from before. A thin pink blanket is pulled up to his chest, and the pillow under his head is soft.

Charles shifts his gaze to the rest of the room and sees a simple dresser, a nightstand, and a large window that looks onto the forest. Charles guesses that this house sits close to the mountains, judging by the thick pine trees.

A few minutes after Charles wakes, the door opens and Abigail steps through. “Charles!" she says when she notices that he's conscious. "It's good to see you awake.”

“Abigail,” he replies, with some surprise.

“How are you feeling?”

Charles takes a moment to assess his injury. He wiggles the fingers on his injured side and finds that they obey his command. “Better than I thought I’d feel. How long has it been?”

“Four days.” She moves up close to the bed. “The doctor had you on a lot of drugs. That ride from the mountains was hard on you.”

Panic filters through his mind, sudden and bright. “Arthur.” He tries to sit up.

Abigail’s hand lands on his good shoulder and eases him back to the bed. “Arthur’s okay, Charles. He’s still sleeping, but he’ll be okay.”

Charles closes his eyes, and Abigail squeezes his shoulder.

“You two have been through a lot, haven’t you? John, Jack, and I—we have you to thank for helping us get out from under Dutch’s thumb. I don’t think John would have left otherwise.”

Charles opens his eyes and finally truly looks at her. Her cheeks are pink and there’s a brightness to her eyes that Charles never remembered her having. She’s healthy and happy.

“It’s what you deserve,” Charles replies.

She smiles. “Are you hungry?”

“I…” Charles’ fingers clench in the folds of the blanket. “I’d like to see Arthur.”

Abigail sighs. “I’d tell you how much you shouldn’t be walking right now, but I don’t think you’d listen. I’ll get John to help you to Arthur’s room and I’ll bring your food in there. How does that sound?”

“Thank you, Abigail.”

She leaves Charles alone, and it only takes a few moments for the door to open again and John to enter. He also looks better than he had a few months ago—his face is clean, and his hair is combed away from his face. Charles idly wonders if this life is suiting him. Abigail and Charles—two people who fell in love with men that have wildness in their veins.

“Charles, it’s good to see you.”

“You too, John.”

“You want to see my idiot brother?”

Charles doesn’t speak as John helps ease him to his feet. It’s not as difficult as Charles imagined it would be. His shoulder aches, but it’s manageable, and John props himself under Charles’ good shoulder, strong despite his willowy appearance.

“You’re lucky you’ve been asleep for as long as you have,” John says conversationally as they make their way across the room. “Hosea and Sadie are great, but this place was not meant for this many people. Just wait until you have to share a tiny kitchen table with Sadie. I've feared for my elbows a few times.”

The house, Charles discovers, has three bedrooms, a small living space, and a kitchen. Sadie and Hosea have set up in the living room, and the Marston’s must be sharing the third bedroom. John leads them to the middle bedroom and opens the door slowly.

It’s quiet, but the curtains are open to let in the light that filters through the trees. Arthur is lying on his back, face relaxed and peaceful. As John leads Charles closer to the bed, Charles notices the small bandage on his face where Micah’s knife had nicked him, and a shadow of fear passes through him. He tries to focus on the steady rise and fall of Arthur’s chest to remind himself Arthur is alive. 

His color is healthier, and Charles wonders if the specter of death has released Arthur from its hold.

There’s an armchair next to the bed, and John helps Charles settle in it. Charles lets out a breath of pain as the movement jolts his injury, but he ignores it in favor of letting his eyes rove over whatever parts of Arthur he can see.

“Just yell if you need anything, alright?” John says.

“Thank you, John.”

The door clicks shut, and then Charles is alone with Arthur.

Arthur’s arms rest on top of the blanket, and Charles takes the hand resting closest to him. Arthur’s palm is warm and dry, and Charles thinks back on holding Arthur’s hand just like this as he burned up with fever at Henry’s ranch. Arthur has looked death in the face more times than any man should, and he has walked away from it every time. Charles wishes he would stop walking towards it in the first place, but he’s beginning to wonder if it’s worth it to wish at all.

Abigail brings him a bowl of stew, and he accepts gratefully, momentarily letting go of Arthur’s hand. He knows Abigail saw it, but she doesn’t comment or act surprised. 

She lingers a moment, eyes on Arthur’s sleeping form.

“It never gets better, seeing them this way, does it?”

Charles thinks about John, weak and bloodied from the wolf attack and of Abigail, her face twisted in anger and sorrow as she sat by his bedside.

“No, it doesn’t,” he replies, and he knows that Abigail understands exactly how he’s feeling.

“We’ll knock some sense into them yet, just you wait,” she says with a grin that’s just a touch too pained to be happy, and then she leaves Charles alone.

He must have dozed off, because when the knock on the door comes, the light has shifted into the golden glow of sunset.

“Come in,” he calls, voice muzzy.

It’s Hosea that steps through the door, and he’s carrying what appears to be two cups of tea.

“How you holding up there, Charles?”

His neck is stiff from the angle he was sleeping in the armchair, and his shoulder is aching again, but it’s not the worst he’s felt. “I’m okay.”

Hosea hands Charles one of the two cups he’s carrying and settles carefully on the edge of Arthur’s bed. The blanket creases underneath his worn pants. He assesses Charles with a kind gaze, and Charles wonders what he sees.

Charles has always respected Hosea, and he often wondered why Hosea stuck with a man like Dutch, so obviously barreling down a track to destruction. But Charles also recognizes a man who’s lived that life for so long it’s hard to imagine anything else, and he knows what loyalty can do to a person. Charles hopes Dutch’s act on the mountain was enough to cut both Arthur and Hosea free from their bonds.

“You sure are thinking hard over there,” Hosea says and takes a sip of his cup of tea.

Charles lifts his own cup to his lips and takes a careful sip. It’s lightly sweet and warming, and Charles savors it. “There’s a lot to think about,” he eventually replies.

“Tell me about this house you two built,” Hosea says, and it takes Charles a bit by surprise.

“It’s simple. Sturdy. Sits on a beautiful lake in northern Washington.” Charles turns his gaze to Arthur, peaceful in his slumber. “I want to go back.”

“And you will,” Hosea replies. “You will.”

“And you’ll come with us?” Charles asks. “There’s room enough for you and John’s family to be comfortable.”

Hosea looks down at the cup in his hands. “I suppose there’s not much keeping me out here anymore.” He looks up at Charles, and his mouth is twisted in a small smile. “I’ll think about it.”

They sit in a calm silence for a little while, until Hosea speaks again. “I wanted to thank you, Charles.”

“Thank me?”

Hosea nods. “I love Arthur like a son, of course I do, but I know I haven’t been there for him in the way he needs. I’ve been part of the reason he stuck with the gang, and I know now that it would have killed him. You showed him that there’s life outside, and you did it because you care for him.”

Charles looks over at Arthur’s still form and feels the leftover fear from the last few weeks settle heavily on his shoulders. “I just wish it would have done more for him.”

“Arthur is _alive_ because of you. He’s stubborn as a mule, but don’t for one second think what you did for him was in vain.”

Charles doesn’t know how much Arthur told him, but Charles trusts Hosea in a way he trusts few others.

“Arthur isn’t always easy to love,” Charles says. “But it’s not something I’d change. I’d do everything again, if it meant I got to see him happy, even for a little while.”

Hosea smiles a sad smile. “The universe isn’t always kind, but I think happiness is coming. For both of you.”

The golden light of sunset wraps them both in warmth, and Charles wonders if he’s right.

Arthur wakes to a world of muffled pain, and it takes him a few long moments to orient himself in space. He’s lying on his back, and the weight on his body is a blanket. The wooden ceiling above him and the softness below him tell him he’s in a bedroom, in someone’s bed. He’s not sure where. The angle and color of the sunlight tell him it’s sometime around mid-morning. 

His thigh is aching the most, and as soon as that thought registers, the events on the mountain come flooding back to him.

“Arthur buddy, you awake?”

Arthur squints over and sees John, lounging in an armchair next to his bed, socked feet propped up on the mattress.

“What the hell are you doin’ here?” Arthur asks. His voice is shot to hell, so his question is less threatening than he meant it to be.

“Hey, I saved your life!” John fires back. “A little respect.”

“I saved you from those wolves, didn’t I? I’d say we’re even.”

John’s face softens. “Nah. I owe you a lot, still. Probably always will.” He removes his feet from the mattress. “How’re you feeling?”

Arthur grunts. “Like I got stabbed. What happened? I was sure I was drawing my last breaths out there.” He frowns. “Where’s Charles?” Fear grips him as he remembers the gunshot and Charles hitting the snowy ground.

“Charles is in the other room. Abigail made him get some sleep, otherwise, he’d be right here in this chair.”

Arthur’s chest seizes with affection.

“Sadie, Hosea, and Javier found you two shortly after Charles got shot, and they were able to bring you here. Hosea knows a doctor, and he kept you two from dying.”

Arthur finally glances at the rest of the room. “Is this your house?”

“For now. When winter ends, we’ll probably move.”

“I’m proud of you,” Arthur says. “For getting out of there.”

“You’re the reason I did,” John replies. “So thanks for that.” He stands. “I’m under strict orders from Charles to let him know when you wake up, so I’m gonna do that.” He reaches for the nightstand and hands Arthur a glass of water. “Here.”

Arthur drinks a few slow sips to clear the dryness in his mouth and watches as John leaves the room. There’s something like anxiety lodged in his throat, and he’s not sure exactly what’s causing it. His relationship with Charles has always been easy, but Arthur certainly did his best to wreck it, and he’s not sure where they stand now. Charles saved his life again, but that doesn’t mean he still wants what they had when Arthur left.

Arthur gets a few minutes of silent reflection before the door creaks open. Charles is walking stiffly, and his shoulder is bandaged, but he looks good, and Arthur feels a tightness in his chest as he looks at him. Charles settles in the armchair next to his bed, eyes locked on Arthur’s face.

“You’re a fool, Arthur,” Charles says. “But damn is it good to see you awake.” Hope takes root in Arthur’s chest, and he can’t help the small smile that curves on his mouth. 

“Likewise. I wasn’t sure I’d see you again,” Arthur replies. “I was sure that mountain was my end.”

“It was a close call. If Sadie and Hosea hadn’t shown up when they did…” The look on his face is stricken, and Arthur reaches out a hand. Charles takes it and squeezes firmly.

“If you hadn’t shown up, Micah would have surely killed me. I have you to thank for my life. Again.”

“It felt good to end that snake’s life,” Charles says. “Though it’s a shame he didn’t get to see my face and know I was the one who pulled the trigger.” He looks down at their joined hands. “There was a moment that I thought Micah had already killed you. I’m not sure what I would have done.”

The bed Arthur rests in is a double, and he begins sliding gingerly to one side. He tugs on Charles’ hand.

“I don’t want to jostle you,” Charles says with a furrowed brow.

“We’re both injured. We’ll be careful.”

Charles eases himself onto the mattress beside Arthur and shifts so he’s on his good shoulder, facing Arthur. Arthur turns his head and simply looks at him across the short distance between their faces.

“I missed you,” Arthur admits. “I don’t deserve a second chance, not after leaving like I did. But I don’t think I’m strong enough to leave you again, not after the way I've felt these weeks.”

“How do I know for sure, Arthur?” Charles asks, and Arthur’s throat tightens at the pain on his face.

“I’ve given you no reason to trust me, but…” Arthur trails off and looks away, down to where his thumb is passing slowly over the back of Charles’ hand. “But Dutch would have watched me die. He _made sure_ Micah had the upper hand, and then he watched as Micah waved that knife in my face.” Arthur looks back up at Charles and sighs. “I’m sorry it took me so long to realize Dutch don’t care about me. You were right, and I’ve been such a fool.”

Charles squeezes his hand. “It’s not an easy thing to realize, especially of a man who claimed to be your father.”

“You’ve had more patience with me than I deserve,” Arthur says, and he doesn’t recognize his own voice. “But I want to promise you, Charles, that this is the end of it. Unless someone pulls a gun on me while I’m mindin’ my own business, I’m _through_ with this shit. No more gunslinging and risking my life for nothing but pain. I’m just sorry I've already caused so much pain.”

The morning light slants through the window and paints the silky edges of Charles’ hair in a warm white glow. Arthur can feel the same sunlight warming his face, and it makes him think of their mornings on the road together, just them and the wilderness, traveling towards a freedom that felt unreal and distant.

“Arthur, do you know why I followed you back out here? Why I dragged you out of Dutch’s gang in the first place? I told you you were worth saving, and I meant it, but that’s not all of it.” He releases Arthur’s hand and his fingers settle gently on Arthur’s jaw. “After our hunting trip in Colter, you captured my attention. I wanted _more_ of you, and I knew that the gang was too stifling. I could see it crushing you. My main motivation for convincing you to leave was that I _care_ for you, Arthur, more than I can say, and even back then I had an idea of what you meant to me, even if I didn't know the extent.”

Arthur lets out a shaky breath, nearly overwhelmed by the cascade of adoration that hits him. “I love you too, Charles,” he chokes out. “God, I do.”

Charles shifts closer, and when he kisses Arthur, it’s soft enough to make Arthur’s heart ache sweetly. Charles holds him steady with the hand on his jaw, just like he always does, and the warm press of their mouths is like a promise. Arthur knows, finally, that this is a promise he can keep.

When Charles pulls back, it’s only enough to press their foreheads together. They stay like that for a while, simply touching one another, and it’s not until the knock sounds at the door and Arthur sees that the sun is coming through the window at a different angle that he realizes he fell into a doze.

Charles sits up but doesn’t leave the bed. “Come in.”

It’s Sadie that steps through. “Arthur, I’m glad you’re finally awake,” she says. “I was worried Charles was going to start clawing at the walls.”

Arthur sees Charles’ brow furrow, but Charles doesn’t say anything.

“Good to see you too, Sadie,” Arthur replies.

She crosses the room to stand next to the bed. “I came in to let you two know I’m leaving.”

“Leaving?” Arthur asks.

“I’m not ready to live the domestic life just yet,” she replies with a small smile. “I’ve got some loose ends I want to tie up, and I think I need to get some shit out of my system. I’m sure you understand.”

Arthur doesn’t like it, but he does understand, and he won’t deny her that. “As long as you’re smart about it.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m smarter than half the men of the gang combined, thank you.”

Arthur laughs at that, and he sees that Charles has a smile on his face too. “Well then, I wish you the best of luck.”

“I’ll keep in touch. I want to see your house, eventually, and I don’t think I’ll be at this forever.”

“You’re always welcome,” Charles says.

She reaches out and squeezes Arthur’s shoulder and Charles’ bicep. “You two take care, you hear me?”

Arthur has never met a woman stronger than Sadie, and her departure pulls at something in his gut. She’s been more of a friend to him than many, and he hopes that she’ll keep her word and visit them. 

“Thank you Sadie, for everything,” he says, and it falls short of everything he wishes he could say to her.

She nods like she understands what he can’t say, and when the door clicks shut behind her, both Charles and Arthur are quiet for a long moment.

Eventually, Arthur sighs and asks the question he’s been avoiding for long enough.

“What happened to Dutch and Javier?”

Charles picks at the blanket and keeps his gaze turned down. “When Sadie’s group caught up with us on the mountain, Javier took Dutch and left. He told us not to follow him, so your guess is as good as mine.”

Arthur stares up at the wood of the ceiling, follows its dark whorls with his eyes. “I suppose it’s for the best. Javier was angry at the both of us for leaving.”

“I figured he would be,” Charles replies. “He was always the most loyal to Dutch, even in the gang’s darkest moments.”

Arthur doesn’t like the look on Charles’ face, and he’s tired of thinking about Dutch. He’s tired of Dutch coming between them.

“Come back down here,” he says, and Charles looks startled only for a moment before he lays down next to Arthur again. “You think our house will be as we left it?” Arthur asks, taking Charles’ hand again and enjoying the way their fingers thread together so easily.

“I asked Henry’s cousin to watch over it while we’re gone.”

Arthur smiles. “You think of everything, don’t you?”

“Hush, you,” Charles replies.

“Seems to me you’ll have to make me,” Arthur says with a smile.

Charles kisses him, and something settles in Arthur’s chest, a piece out of place finally coming to rest.

They spend a month in that little house, waiting for the spring thaw. By the time the sun warms the earth, they have everything packed and are ready for a trip west. The Marston’s and Hosea agree to accompany them after a little persuading, and as they leave, Arthur feels something like peace take hold of him.

“Been missing this?” Charles asks when they first mount up, and when Arthur looks over at him, Charles holds his hat out to him. Arthur grins and tilts his chin down, and Charles places the hat on his head.

The spring is gentle after such a hard winter, and Arthur spends much of their time with his face turned up into the sun. Charles rides next to him, and it’s almost like old times except for the wagon that trails behind them and Jack’s happy chatter that fills the spring air.

It’s almost laughably easy to travel west this time. They catch the train, and no one gives them a second glance. It’s like a curse has lifted from their shoulders, and they are no longer marked men. Perhaps the hunted tilt of their shoulders is gone and strangers can no longer sense their guilt. 

Maybe America has changed enough that they don’t recognize men like them anymore. Arthur doesn’t know what it is, but he’s grateful for it.

The path northward from Oregon is slow-going, but it’s calm and easy. Charles plays his harmonica at night, and they camp under friendly stars. Arthur doesn’t know the last time he’s seen all of them smile as much as they do now, and it warms him through, more than even the spring air is able to.

Arthur is happy to be riding Penny again, and by the way Charles’ hands are often in Taima’s mane, Arthur can tell he feels the same way. 

It’s late May by the time they reach the lake, and when they finally round the curve that brings the cabin into view, Arthur’s chest seizes with something bright and strong.

“This is nice!” Abigail exclaims, already corralling Jack as he hops off the wagon and darts towards the house. Hosea and John watch them fondly as they follow a little distance behind, neither of them in a hurry. Arthur hopes none of them are ever in a hurry again. 

Arthur lingers behind, and when Charles notices, he holds back with him.

“You coming, cowboy?” Charles asks with a fond smile.

Arthur smiles back. “Lead on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [And the credits roll](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VYYqDDHcjpc)
> 
> Thanks again, friends. You can find me on [tumblr](https://paisleycowboys.tumblr.com). Don't be a stranger!


End file.
